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OOOOQOOQQOQQQQQOOOQOQ 

THE MASTER’S 
VIOLIN 


BY 

MYRTLE REED 

• % 

Author of 

“Lavender and Old Lace” 
“Old Rose and Silver” 
“A Spinner in the Sun” 
“Flower of the Dusk” 
Etc, 



New York 

GROSSET & DUNLAP 

Publishers 






Copyright, 1904 

BY 

MYRTLE REED 


is? la 


dr 


A Weaver of Dreams 
Old Rose and Silver 
Lavender and Old Lace >— ~ 
The Master’s Violin 
Love Letters of a Musician 
The Spinster Book 
The Shadow of Victory 


By Myrtle Reed: 

Sonnets to a Lover 
Master of the Vineyard 
Flower of the Dusk 
At the Sign of the Jack-o’-Lantern 
A Spinner in the Sun 
Later Love Letters of a Musician 
Love Affairs of Literary Men 


Myrtle Reed Year Book 


This edition is issued under arrangement with the publishers 

G. P. Putnam’s Sons, New York and London 


Contents 


CHAPTER fAGE 

I — The Master Plays • • • i 

II — “ Mine Cremona ” . . . 20 

III — The Gift of Peace ... 33 

IV — Sogal Position. ... 50 

V — The Light of Dreams • . 65 

VI— A Letter . . * . ,81 

VII— Friends 91 

VIII — A Bit of Human Driftwood . 105 

IX — Rosemary and Mignonette . 120 

X— In the Garden . . . .127 

XI — “ Sunset and Evening Star ” . 144 

XII— The False Line . . . .159 

XIII— To Iris 177 

XIV — Her Name-Flower . . .182 

XV — Little Lady .... 199 

XVI— Afraid of Life . . . .215 


Contents 


CHAPTER 

XVII— 44 He Loves Her Still ” . 

PAGE 

• ^3 

XVIII — Lynn Comes into His Own 

• 247 

XIX — The Secret Chamber 

. 265 

XX — 44 Mine Brudder’s Friend ” 

. 280 

XXI— The Cremona Speaks 

. 298 


I 


Cbe flDaater jpla^s 



HE fire blazed newly from its embers and 


1 set strange shadows to dancing upon 
the polished floor. Now and then, there was 
a gleam from some dark mahogany surface 
and an answering flash from a bit of old sil- 
ver in the cabinet. April, warm with May’s 
promise, came in through the open window, 
laden with the wholesome fragrance of grow- 
ing things, and yet, because an old lady loved 
it, there was a fire upon the hearth and no 
other light in the room. 

She sat in her easy chair, sheltered from 
possible draughts, and watched it, seemingly 
unmindful of her three companions. Tints 
of amethyst and sapphire appeared in the 
haze from the backlog and were lost a mo- 
ment later in the dominant flame. In that 
last hour of glorious life, the tree was giving 
back its memories — blue skies, grev days iust 


2 


XTbe /Caster's IDtol in 


tinged with gold, lost rainbows, and flushes 
of sun. 

Friendly ghosts of times far past were con- 
jured back in shadows — outspread wings, 
low-lying clouds, and long nights that ended 
in dawn. Swift flights of birds and wander- 
ing craft of thistledown were mirrored for an 
instant upon the shining floor, and then for- 
gotten, because of falling leaves. 

Lines of transfiguring light changed the 
snowy softness of Miss Field’s hair to silver, 
and gave to her hands the delicacy of carved 
ivory. A tiny foot peeped out from beneath 
her gown, clad in its embroidered silk stock- 
ing and high-heeled slipper, so brave in its 
trappings of silver buckles that she might 
have been eighteen instead of seventy-five. 

Upon her face the light lay longest; perhaps 
with an answering love. The years had been 
kind to her — had given her only enough bit- 
terness to make her realise the sweetness, 
and from the threads that Life had placed in 
her hands at the beginning, had taught her 
how to weave the blessed fabric of Content. 

“ Aunt Peace,” asked the girl, softly, “ have 
you forgotten that we have company ?” 

Dispelled by the voice, the gracious phan- 


Ube flDaster plaps 


3 


toms of Memory vanished. There was a 
little silence, then the old lady smiled. “No, 
dearie,” she said, “ indeed I have n’t. It is too 
rare a blessing for me to forget.” 

“Please don’t call us ‘company/” put in 
the other woman, quickly, “ because we ’re 
not.” 

“‘Company,’” observed the young man 
on the opposite side of the hearth, “is ex- 
tremely good under the circumstances. 
Somebody nearly breaks down your front 
door on a rainy afternoon, and when you 
rush out to save the place from ruin, you dis- 
cover two dripping tramps on your steps. 
Stranded on an island in the road is a waggon 
containing their trunks, from which place of 
refuge they recently swam to your door. 

‘ How do you do, Aunt Peace ?’ says mother ; 
‘ we ’ve come to live with you from this time 
on to the finish.’ On behalf of this com- 
mittee, ladies, I thank you, from my heart, 
for calling us ‘ company.’ ” 

Laughing, he rose and made an exaggerated 
courtesy. “Lynn! Lynn! ” expostulated his 
mother. “Is it possible that after all my ex- 
planations you don’t understand? Why, I 
v' r ote more than two weeks ago, asking her 


4 


Ubc Master's Violin 


to let us know if she did n’t want us. Silence 
always gives consent, and so we came. ,, 

“Yes, we came all right,” continued the 
boy, cheerfully, “and, as everybody knows, 
we ’re here now, but is n’t it just like a wo- 
man ? Upon my word, I think they ’re queer 
— the whole tribe.” 

“Having thus spoken,” remarked the girl, 
“you might tell us how a man would have 
managed it.” 

“Very easily. A man would have called 
in his stenographer — no, he would n’t, either, 
because it was a personal letter. He would 
have made an excavation into his desk and 
found the proper stationery, and would have 
put in a new pen. ‘My dear Aunt Peace,’ 
he would have said, ‘ you must n’t think 1 ’ve 
forgotten you because I haven’t written for 
such a long time. If I had written every time I 
had wanted to, or had thought of you, actually, 
you ’d have been bored to death with me. I 
have a kid who thinks he is going to be a 
fiddler, and we have decided to come and live 
with you while he finds out, as we under- 
stand that Herr Franz Kaufmann, who is not 
unknown to fame, lives in your village. Will 
you please let us know ? If you can’t take 


XTbe /toaster pla^s 


5 


us, or don’t want to, here 's a postage stamp, 
and no hard feelings on either side.’” 

“Just what I said,” explained Mrs. Irving, 
“ though my language was n’t quite like 
yours. ” 

The old lady smiled again. “ My dears,” 
she began, “let us cease this unprofitable 
discussion. It is all because we are so far out 
of the beaten track that we seldom go to the 
post-office. I am sure the letter is there now. ” 

“I will get it to-morrow,” replied Lynn, 
“which is kind of me, considering that 
my remarks have just been alluded to as 
‘ unprofitable.’ ” 

“You can’t expect everybody to think as 
much of what you say as you do,” suggested 
Iris, with a trace of sarcasm. 

“ Score one for you, Miss Temple. I shall 
now retire into my shell.” So saying, he 
turned to the fire, and his face became thought- 
ful again. 

The three women looked at him from 
widely differing points of view. The girl, 
concealed in the shadow, took maidenly ac- 
count of his tall, well-knit figure, his dark 
eyes, his sensitive mouth, and his firm, finely 
modelled chin. From a half-defined impulse 


6 


Ubc toaster’s IDtoUn 


of coquetry, she was glad of the mood which 
had led her to put on her most becoming 
gown early in the afternoon. The situation 
was interesting — there was a vague hint of a 
challenge of some kind. 

Aunt Peace, so long accustomed to quiet 
ways, had at first felt the two an intrusion 
into her well-ordered home, though at the 
same time her hospitable instincts reproached 
her bitterly. He was of her blood and her 
line, yet in some way he seemed like an alien 
suddenly claiming kinship. A span of fifty 
years and more stretched between them, and 
across it, they contemplated each other, both 
wondering. For his part, he regarded her as 
one might a cameo of fine workmanship or 
an old miniature. She was so passionless, so 
virginal, so far removed from all save the 
gentlest emotions, that he saw her only as 
one who stood apart. 

The smile still lingered upon her lips and 
the firelight made shadows beneath her serene 
eyes. Had they asked her for her thoughts 
she could have phrased only one. Deep 
down in her heart she wondered whether 
anything on earth had ever been so joyously 
young as Lynn. 


TLbc faster plaps 


7 


His mother, too, was watching him, as 
always when she thought herself unobserved. 
In spite of his stalwart manhood, to her he 
was still a child. Forgiving all things, dream- 
ing all things, hoping all things with the bound- 
less faith of maternity, she loved him, through 
the child that he was, for the man that he 
might be — loved him, through the man that 
he was, for the child that he had been. 

The fire had died down, and Iris, leaning 
forward, laid a bit of pine upon the dull glow 
in the midst of the ashes. It caught quickly, 
and once again the magical light filled the 
room. 

“Sing something, dear,” said Aunt Peace, 
drowsily, and Iris made a little murmur of 
dissent. 

“Do you sing, Miss Temple?” asked 
Irving, politely. 

“No,” she answered, “and what ’s more, I 
know 1 don’t, but Aunt Peace likes to hear 
me.” 

“We’d like to hear you, too,” said Mrs. 
Irving, so gently that no one could have 
refused. 

Much embarrassed, she went to the piano, 
which stood in the next room, just beyond 


8 


Ube /©astern IDtoiin 


the arch, and struck a few chords. The 
instrument was old and worn, but still sweet, 
and, fearful at first, but gaining confidence as 
she went on, Iris sang an old-fashioned song. 

Her voice was contralto; deep, vibrant, and 
full, but untrained. Still, there were evidences 
of study and of work along right lines. Be- 
fore she had finished, Irving was beside her, 
resting his elbow upon the piano. 

“Who taught you?” he asked, when the 
last note died away. 

“Herr Kaufmann,” she replied, diffidently. 

“I thought he was a violin teacher.” 

“He is.” 

“Then how can he teach singing?” 

“ He does n’t.” 

Irving went no farther, and Miss Temple, 
realising that she had been rude, hastened to 
atone. “I mean by that,” she explained, 
“that he doesn’t teach anyone but me. I 
had a few lessons a long time ago, from a 
lady who spent the Summer here, and he has 
been helping rne ever since. That is all. He 
says it does n’t matter whether people have 
voices or not — if they have hearts, he can 
make them sing.” 

“You play, don’t you ? ” 


Ube /©aster plaps 


9 


11 Yes — a little. I play accompaniments 
for him sometimes.” 

“Then you ’ll play with me, won’t you ?” 

“ Perhaps.” 

* ‘ When — to-morrow ? ” 

“I’ll see,” laughed Iris. “You should be 
a lawyer instead of a violinist. You make me 
feel as if I were on the witness stand.” 

“My father was a lawyer; I suppose I in- 
herit it.” Iris had a question upon her lips, 
but checked it. 

“He is dead,” the young man went on, as 
though in answer to it. “He died when I 
was about five years old, and 1 remember 
him scarcely at all.” 

“ I don’t remember either father or mother,” 
she said. “ I had a very unhappy childhood, 
and things that happened then make me 
shudder even now. Just at the time it was 
hardest — when I couldn’t possibly have 
borne any more — Aunt Peace discovered me. 
She adopted me, and I ’ve been happy ever 
since, except for all the misery I can’t forget.” 

“ She ’s not really your aunt, then ? ” 

“No. Legally, I am her daughter, but she 
would n’t want me to call her ‘mother,’ even 
if I could.” 


10 


XTbe toaster's Violin 


The talk in the other room had become 
merely monosyllables, with bits of under- 
standing silence between. Iris went back, 
and Mrs. Irving thanked her prettily for the 
song. 

“Thank you for listening,” she returned. 
“ Come, Aunt Peace, you ’re nodding.” 

“So I was, dearie. Is it late ?” 

“It’s almost ten.” 

In her stately fashion, Miss Field bade her 
guests good night. Iris lit a candle and fol- 
lowed her up the broad, winding stairway. 
It made a charming picture — the old lady in 
her trailing gown, the light throwing her 
white hair into bold relief, and the girl behind 
her, smiling back over the banister, and wav- 
ing her hand in farewell. 

In Lynn’s fond sight, his mother was very 
lovely as she sat there, with the firelight 
shining upon her face. He liked the way her 
dark hair grew about her low forehead, her 
fair, smooth skin, and the mysterious depths 
of her eyes. Ever since he could remember, 
she had worn a black gown, with soft folds 
of white at the throat and wrists. 

“ It ’s time to go out for our walk now,” 
he said. 


Ube toaster plass 


IX 


“Not to-night, son. I *m tired.” 

“That doesn’t make any difference; you 
must have exercise.” 

“ I’ve had some, and besides, it ’s wet.” 

Lynn was already out of hearing, in search 
of her wraps. He put on her rubbers, paying 
no heed to her protests, and almost before 
she knew it, she was out in the April night, 
woman-like, finding a certain pleasure in his 
quiet mastery. 

The storm was over and the hidden moon 
silvered the edges of the clouds. Here and 
there a timid planet looked out from behind 
its friendly curtain, but only the pole star 
kept its beacon steadily burning. The air 
was sweet with the freshness of the rain, and 
belated drops, falling from the trees, made 
a faint patter upon the ground. 

Down the long elm-bordered path they 
went, the boy eager to explore the unfamiliar 
place; the mother, harked back to her girl- 
hood, thrilled with both pleasure and pain. 

Happy are they who leave the scenes of 
early youth to the ministry of Time. Going 
back, one finds the river a little brook, the 
long stretch of woodland only a grove in the 
midst of a clearing, and the upland pastures. 


12 


TOe /©aster's IDtol in 


that once seemed mountains, are naught but 
stony, barren fields. 

As they stood upon the bridge, looking 
down into the rushing waters, Margaret re- 
membered the lost majesty of that narrow 
stream, and sighed. The child who had 
played so often upon its banks had grown to 
a woman, rich with Life’s deepest experiences, 
but the brook was still the same. Through 
endless years it must be the same, drawing 
its waters from unseen sources, while genera- 
tion after generation withered away, like the 
flowers that bloomed upon its grassy borders 
while the years were young. 

Lynn broke rudely into her thoughts. “ I 
wish I ’d known you when you were a kid, 
mother,” he said. 

“Why?” 

“ Oh, 1 think I ’d have liked to play with 
you. We could have made some jolly mud 
pies.” 

“We did, but you were three, and I was 
twenty-five. Much ashamed, too, I remem- 
ber, when your father caught me doing it.” 

“Am I like him?” 

He had asked the question many times and 
her answer was always the same. “Yes, 


XTbe faster HMass 


13 


very much like him. He was a good man, 
Lynn.” 

“Do I look like him ?” 

“Yes, all but your eyes.” 

“ When you lived here, did you know Herr 
Kaufmann ?” 

“ By sight, yes.” He was looking straight 
at her, but she had turned her face away, for- 
getting the darkness. “We used to see him 
passing in the street,” she went on, in a differ- 
ent tone. “He was a student and never 
seemed to know many people. He would 
not remember me.” 

“ Then there ’s no use of my telling him 
who lam?” 

“Not the least.” 

“ Maybe he won’t take me.” 

“Yes, he will,” she answered, though her 
heart suddenly misgave her. “He must — 
there is no other way.” 

“ Will you go with me ? ” 

“No, indeed; you must go alone. 1 shall 
not appear at all.” 

“Why, mother?” 

“ Because.” It was her woman’s reason, 
which he had learned to accept as final. Be- 
yond that there was no appeal. 


14 


Ubc /toaster’s IDioUn 


East Lancaster lay on one side of the brook 
and West Lancaster on the other. The two 
settlements were quite distinct, though they 
had a common bond of interest in the post- 
office, which was harmoniously situated near 
the border line. East Lancaster was the home 
of the aristocracy. Here were old Colonial 
mansions in which, through their descendants, 
the builders still lived. The set traditions 
of a bygone century held full sway in the 
place, but, though circumscribed by condi- 
tions, the upper circle proudly considered 
itself complete. 

West Lancaster was on a hill, and a steep 
one at that. Hardy German immigrants had 
settled there, much to the disgust of East 
Lancaster, holding itself sternly aloof year 
after year. It was not considered ‘‘good 
form ” to allude to the dwellers upon the hill, 
save in low tones and with lifted brows, yet 
there were not wanting certain good Samari- 
tans who sent warm clothing and discarded 
playthings, after nightfall and by stealth, to 
the little Teutons who lived so near them. 

Hemmed in by the everlasting hills, es- 
tranged from its neighbour, and barely upon 
speaking terms with other towns, East Lan- 


XTbe /IDaster UMa^s 


15 


caster let the world go on by. Two trains a 
day rushed through the station, for the main 
line of the railroad, receiving no encourage- 
ment from East Lancaster, had laid its tracks 
elsewhere. It was still spoken of as “the 
time when, if you will remember, my dear, 
they endeavoured to ruin our property with 
dirt and noise.” 

“ Her clothes are like her name,” remarked 
Lynn. 

“Whose clothes?” asked Mrs. Irving, 
taken out of her reverie. 

“That girl’s. She had on a green dress, 
and some yellow velvet in her hair. Her 
eyes are purple.” 

“ Violet, you mean, dear. Did you notice 
that?” 

“Of course — don’t I notice everything? 
Come, mother ; 1 ’ll race you to the top of the 
hill.” 

Once again her objections were of no avail. 
Together they ran, laughing, up the winding 
road that led to the summit, stopping very 
soon, however, and going on at a more mod- 
erate pace. 

The street was narrow, and the houses on 
either side were close together. Each had its 


i6 


TTbe Master's tittoUn 


tiny patch of ground in front, laid out in 
flower-beds bordered with whitewashed 
stones, in true German fashion. There were 
no street lamps, for West Lancaster also re- 
sented all modern innovations, but in the 
Spring night one could see dimly. 

Lanterns flitted here and there, like fireflies 
starred against the dark. Margaret protested 
that she was tired, but Lynn put his arm 
around her and hurried her on. Never before 
had she set foot upon the soil of West Lan- 
caster, but she had full knowledge of the way. 

The brow of the hill was close at hand, and 
she caught her breath in sudden fear. Lynn, 
in the midst of a graphic recital of some boy- 
ish prank, took no note of her agitation. He 
did not even know that they had come to the 
end of their journey, until a man tiptoed 
toward them, his finger upon his lips. 

“Hush!” he breathed. “The Master 
plays.” 

At the very top of the hill, almost at the 
brink of the precipice, W2S a house so small 
that it seemed more like a box than a dwell- 
ing. In the street were a dozen people, 
both men and women, standing in stolid 
patience. The little house was dark, but a 


Ube /©aster piass 


l 7 


window was open, and from within, muted 
almost to a whisper, came the voice of a 
violin. 

For an hour or more they stood there, lis- 
tening. By insensible degrees the music 
grew in volume, filled with breadth and 
splendour, yet with a lyric undertone. Sound- 
ing chords, caught from distant silences, one 
by one were woven in. Songs that had an 
epic grasp; question, prayer, and heartbreak; 
all the pain and beauty of the world were 
part of it, and yet there was something more. 

To Lynn’s trained ear, it was an improvisa- 
tion by a master hand. He was lost in ad- 
miration of the superb technique, the delicate 
phrasing, and the wonderful quality of the 
tone. To the woman beside him, shaken 
from head to foot by unutterable emotion, 
it was Life itself, bare, exquisitely alive, tuned 
to the breaking point — a human thing, made 
of tears and laughter, of ecstasy, tenderness, 
and black despair, lying on the Master’s 
breast and answering to his touch. 

The shallows touch the pebbles, and be- 
hold, there is a little song. The deeps are 
stirred to their foundations, and, long after- 
ward, there is a single vast strophe, majestic 


i8 


Ube Master's IDtoHn 


and immortal, which takes its place by right 
in the symphony of pain. To Margaret, stand- 
ing there with her senses swaying, all her 
possibilities of feeling were merged into one 
unspeakable hurt. 

“Take me away;” she whispered, “I can 
bear no more ! ” 

But Lynn did not hear. He was simply 
and solely the musician, his body tense, his 
head bent forward and a little to one side, 
nodding in emphasis or approval. 

She slipped her arm through his and, trem- 
bling, waited as best she might for the end. 
It came at last and the little group near them 
took up its separate ways. Someone put 
down the window and closed the shutters. 
The Master knew quite well that some of his 
neighbours had been listening, but it pleased 
him to ignore the tribute. No one dared to 
speak to him about his playing. 

“ Mother ! Mother ! ” said Lynn, tenderly, 
“I've been selfish, and I've kept you too 
long ! ” 

“No,” she answered, but her lips were 
cold and her voice was not the same. They 
went downhill together, and she leaned 
heavily upon his supporting arm. He was 


Zbc /©aster pla^s 


19 


humming, under his breath, bits of the im- 
provisation, and did not speak again until 
they were at home. 

The fire was out, but Iris had left two 
lighted candles on a table in the hall. f * A fine 
violin,” he said; “by far the finest I have 
ever heard.” 

“Yes,” she returned, “a Cremona — that 
is, I think it must be, from its tone.” 

“Possibly. Good night, and pleasant 
dreams.” 

They parted at the head of the stairs, and 
down on the landing the tall clock chimed 
twelve. Margaret lay for a long time with 
her eyes closed, but none the less awake. 
Toward dawn, the ghostly fingers of her 
dreams tapped questioningly at the Master’s 
door, but without disturbing his sleep. 


II 

“ fIMne Cremona” 


YNN went up the hill with a long, swing- 



JL-* ing stride. The morning was in his 
heart and it seemed good to be alive. His 
blood fairly sang in his pulses, and his cheery 
whistle was as natural and unconscious as the 
call of the robin in the maple thicket beyond. 

The German housewives left their work 
and came out to see him pass, for strangers 
in West Lancaster were so infrequent as to 
cause extended comment, and he left behind 
him a trail of sharp glances and nodding 
heads. The entire hill was instantly alive 
with gossip which buzzed back and forth like 
a hive of liberated bees. It was a sturdy 
dame near the summit who quelled it, for the 
time being. 

“So/' she said to her next-door neighbour, 
" I was right. He will be going to the 
Master’s.” 


" flMne Cremona ” 


21 


The word went quickly down the line, and 
after various speculations regarding his possi- 
ble errand, the neglected household tasks 
were taken up and the hill was quiet again, 
except for the rosy-cheeked children who 
played stolidly in their bits of dooryards. 

Lynn easily recognised the house, though 
he had seen it but dimly the night before. It 
was two stories in height, but very small, 
and, in some occult way, reminded one of a 
bird-house. It was perched almost upon the 
ledge, and its western windows overlooked 
the valley, filled with tossing willow plumes, 
the winding river, half asleep in its mantle of 
grey and silver, and the range of blue hills 
beyond. 

It was the only house upon the hill which 
boasted two front entrances. Through the 
shining windows of the lower story, on a 
level with the street, he saw violins in all 
stages of making, but otherwise, the room 
was empty. So he climbed the short flight 
of steps and rang the bell. 

The wire was slack and rusty, but after 
two or three trials a mournful clang came 
from the depths of the interior. At last the 
door was opened, cautiously, by a woman 


22 


Ube /Raster's IDiolin 


whose flushed face and red, wrinkled fingers 
betrayed her recent occupation. 

“I beg your pardon,” said Irving, making 
his best bow. “ Is Herr Kaufmann at home ? ” 

“ Not yet,” she replied, “ he will have gone 
for his walk. You will be coming in ?” 

She asked the question as though she feared 
an affirmative answer. “ If I may, please,” 
he returned, carefully wiping his feet upon 
the mat. “ Do you expect him soon ? ” 

“Yes.” She ushered him into the front 
room and pointed to a chair. “You will 
please excuse me,” she said. 

“Certainly! Do not let me detain you.” 

Left to himself, he looked about the room 
with amused curiosity. The furnishings were 
a queer combination of primitive American 
ideas and modern German fancies, overlaid 
with a feminine love of superfluous ornament. 
The Teutonic fondness for colour ran riot in 
everything, and purples, reds, and yellows 
were closely intermingled. The exquisite 
neatness of the place was its redeeming 
feature. 

Apparently, there were two other rooms 
on the same floor — a combined kitchen and 
dining-room was just back of the parlour, and 


“/HMne Cremona” 


23 


a smaller room opened off of it. Lynn was 
meditating upon Herr Kaufmann’s household 
arrangements, when a wonderful object upon 
the table in the corner attracted his attention, 
and he went over to examine it. 

Obviously, it had once been a section of 
clay drainage pipe, but in its sublimated es- 
tate it was far removed from common uses. 
It had been smeared with putty, and, while 
plastic, ornamented with hinges, nails, keys, 
clock wheels, curtain rings, and various other 
things not usually associated with drainage 
pipes. When dry, it had been given further 
distinction by two or three coats of gold paint. 

A wire hair-pin, placed conspicuously near 
the top of it, was rendered so ridiculous by 
the gilding that Lynn laughed aloud. Then, 
influenced by the sound of the scrubbing- 
brush close at hand, he endeavoured to cover 
it with a cough. He was too late, however, 
for, almost immediately, his hostess appeared 
in the doorway. 

“Mine crazy jug,” she said, with gratified 
pride beaming from every feature. 

“ I was just looking at it,” responded Lynn. 
“ It is marvellous. Did you make it yourself ? ” 

“Yes, 1 make him mineself,” she said, 


TLbc toaster's IDfoifn 


C4 

and then retreated, blushing with innocent 
pleasure. 

Not knowing what else to do, he went 
back to his chair and sat down again, care- 
fully avoiding the purple tidy embroidered 
with pink roses. Outside, the street was 
deserted. He wondered what type of a man 
it was who couid live in the same house with 
a “crazy jug” and play as Herr Kaufmann 
played, only last night. Then he reflected 
that the room had been dark, and smiled at 
his foolish fancy. 

A square piano took up one whole side of 
the room, and there were two violins upon it. 
Unthinkingly, Lynn investigated. The first 
one was a good instrument of modern make, 
and the other — he caught his breath as he 
took it out of its case. The thin, fine shell 
was the beautiful body of a Cremona, en- 
shrining a Cremona’s still more beautiful soul. 

He touched it reverently, though his hands 
trembled and his face was aglow. He 
snapped a string with his finger and the 
violin answered with a deep, resonant tone, 
but before the sound had died away, there 
was an exclamation of horror in his ears and 
a firm grip upon his arm. 


" fBMne Cremona ” 


25 


“Mine brudder’s Cremona !” cried the 
woman, her eyes flashing lightnings of anger. 
“You will at once put him down ! ” 

“I beg a thousand pardons! I did not 
realise — 1 did not mean — I did not under- 
stand ” He went on with confused ex- 

planations and apologies which availed him 
nothing. He stood before her, convicted and 
shamed, as one who had profaned the house- 
hold god. 

Wiping her hands upon her apron, she 
went to her work-box, took out her knitting, 
and sat down between Lynn and the piano. 
The chair was hard and uncompromising, 
with an upright back, but she disdained even 
that support and sat proudly erect. 

There was no sound save the click of the 
needles, and she kept her eyes fixed upon her 
work. After an awkward silence, Lynn 
made one or two tentative efforts toward con- 
versation, but each opening proved fruitless, 
and at length he seriously meditated flight. 

The approach to the door was covered, but 
there were plenty of windows, and it would 
be an easy drop to the ground. He smiled as 
he saw himself, mentally, achieving escape in 
this manner and running all the way home. 


26 


Ube Master's Diolln 


“ I wonder,” he mused, “ where in the 
dickens * mine brudder* is ! ” 

The face of the woman before him was still 
flushed and the movement of the needles be- 
trayed her excitement. He noted that she 
wore no wedding ring and surmised that she 
was a little older than his mother. Her feat- 
ures were hard, and her thin, straight hair 
was brushed tightly back and fastened in a 
little knot at the back of her head. It was 
not unlike a door knob, and he began to won- 
der what would happen if he should turn it. 

His irrepressible spirits bubbled over and 
he coughed violently ipto his handkerchief, 
feeling himself closely scrutinised meanwhile. 
The situation was relieved by the sound of 
footsteps and the vigorous slam of the lower 
door. 

Still keeping the piano, with its precious 
burden, within range of her vision, Fraulein 
Kaufmann moved toward the door. “ Franz! 
Franz! ” she called. “ Come here! ” 

“One minute! ” The voice was deep and 
musical and had a certain lyric quality. 
When he came up, there was a conversation 
in indignant German which was brief but 
sufficient. 


" fflMne Cremona ” 


27 


* 

“I can see,” said Lynn to himself, ‘‘that I 
am not to study with Herr Kaufmann.” 

Just then he came in, gave Lynn a quick, 
suspicious glance, took up the Cremona, and 
strode out. He was gone so long that Lynn 
decided to retreat in good order. He picked 
up his hat and was half way out of his chair 
when he heard footsteps and waited. 

“How,” said the Master, “you would like 
to speak with me ? ” 

He was of medium height, had keen, dark 
eyes, bushy brows, ruddy cheeks, and a mass 
of grey hair which he occasionally shook back 
like a mane. He had the typical hands of the 
violinist 

“Yes,” answered Lynn, “ I want to study 
with you.” 

“Study what?” Herr Kaufmann’s tone 
was somewhat brusque. “ Manners ? ” 

“The violin,” explained Irving, flushing. 

“ So ? You make violins ? ” 

“No — I want to play,” 

“ Oh,” said the other, looking at him 
sharply, “it is to play! Well, I can teach you 
nothing.” 

He rose, as though to intimate that the in- 
terview was at an end, but Lynn was not so 


28 


Ubc Master's IDIol in 


easily turned aside. 4 ‘Herr Kaufmann,” he 
began, “I have come hundreds of miles to 
study with you. We have broken up our 
home and have come to live in East Lancas- 
ter for that one purpose. ” 

“I am flattered/’ observed the Master, 
dryly. May I ask how you have heard of me 
so far away as many hundred miles ? ” 

“ Why, everybody knows of you 1 When 
I was a little child, 1 can remember my 
mother telling me that some day I should 
study with the great Herr Kaufmann. It is 
the dream of her life and of mine.” 

“A bad dream,” remarked the violinist, 
succinctly. “ May I ask your mother’s name ? ” 
“Mrs. Irving — Margaret Irving.” 

“ Margaret,” repeated the old man in a dif- 
ferent tone. “Margaret.” 

There was a long silence, then the boy 
began once more. “You ’ll take me, won’t 
you ? ” 

For an instant the Master seemed or the 
point of yielding, unconditionally, then he 
came to himself with a start. “ One mo- 
ment,” he said, clearing his throat. “Why 
did you lift up mine Cremona ? ” 

The piercing eyes were upon him and 


“/BMne Cremona” 


29 


Lynn's colour mounted to his temples, but he 
met the gaze honestly. “I scarcely know 
why," he answered. “I was here alone, I 
had been waiting a long time, and it has al- 
ways been natural for me to look at violins. 
I think we all do things for which we can 
give no reason. I certainly had no intention 
of harming it, nor of offending anybody. I 
am very sorry." 

“Well," sighed the Master, “I should not 
have left it out. Strangers seldom come here, 
but I, too, was to blame. Fredrika takes it to 
herself ; she thinks that she should have left 
her scrubbing and sat with you, but of that 
I am not so sure. It is mine Cremona," he 
went on, bitterly, “nobody touches it but 
mineself." 

His distress was very real, and, for the first 
time, Irving felt a throb of sympathy. How- 
ever unreasonable it might be, however weak 
and childish, he saw that he had unwittingly 
touched a tender place. All the love of the 
hale old heart was centred upon the violin, 
wooden, inanimate — but no. Nothing can be 
inanimate, which is sweetheart and child in 
one. 

* Herr Kaufmann," said Lynn, “ believe me, 


30 


Ube /Easter's UMoIin 


if any act of mine could wipe away my touch, 
I should do it here and now. As it is, 1 can 
only ask your pardon. ” 

“We will no longer speak of it,” returned 
the Master, with quiet dignity. “We will 
attempt to forget.” 

He went to the window and stood with 
his back to Irving for a long time. “ What 
could I have done ? ” thought Lynn. “ I only 
picked it up and laid it down again — I surely 
did not harm it.” 

He was too young to see that it was the sig- 
nificance, rather than the touch ; that the old 
man felt as a lover might who saw his be- 
loved in the arms of another. The bloom 
was gone from the fruit, the fragrance from 
the rose. For twenty-five years and more, 
the Cremona had been sacredly kept. 

The Master’s thoughts had leaped that 
quarter-century at a single bound. Again he 
stood in the woods beyond East Lancaster, 
while the sky was dark with threatening 
clouds and the dead leaves; scurried in fright 
before the north wind. Beside him stood 
a girl of twenty, her face white and her 
sweet mouth quivering. 

“You must take it,” she was saying. •* It 


“flMne Cremona” 


31 


is mine to do with as I please, and no one will 
ever know. If anyone asks, 1 can fix it some- 
way. It is part of myself that I give you, so 
that in all the years, you will not forget me. 
When you touch it, it will be as though you 
took my hand in yours. When it sings to 
you, it will be my voice saying : * I love 
you 1 ’ And in it you will find all the sweet- 
ness of this one short year. All the pain will 
be blotted out and only the joy will be left — 
the joy that we can never know ! ” 

Her voice broke in a sob, then the picture 
faded in a mist of blinding tears. Dull thun- 
ders boomed afar, and he felt her lips crushed 
for an instant against his own. When clear 
sight came back, the storm was raging, and 
he was alone. 

Irving waited impatiently, for he was rest- 
less and longed to get away, but he dared not 
speak. At last the old man turned away 
from the window, his face haggard and 
grey. 

“ You will take me ?” asked Lynn, with a 
note of pleading in his question. 

“Yes,” sighed the Master, “I take you. 
Tuesdays and Fridays at ten. Bring your 
violin and what music you have. We 


32 


XTbe Master's IDioItn 


will see what you have done and what you 
can do. Good-bye/* 

He did not seem to see Lynn’s offered hand, 
and the boy went out, sorely troubled by 
something which seemed just outside his 
comprehension. He walked for an hour in 
the woods before going home, and in answer 
to questions merely said that he had been 
obliged to wait for some time, but that every- 
thing was satisfactorily arranged. 

“ Isn’t he an old dear?’* asked Iris. 

“ I don’t know,” answered Lynn. “ Is he ? ** 


Ill 

Cbe 6ift of peace 



HE mistress of the mansion was giving 


1 her orders for the day. From the far- 
thest nooks and corners of the attic, where 
fragrant herbs swayed back and forth in 
ghostly fashion, to the tiled kitchen, where 
burnished copper saucepans literally shone, 
Miss Field kept in daily touch with her 
housekeeping. 

The old Colonial house was her pride and 
her delight. It was by far the oldest in that 
part of the country, and held an exalted posi- 
tion among its neighbours on that account, 
though the owner, not having spent her 
entire life in East Lancaster, was considered 
somewhat “new.” To be truly aristocratic, 
at least three generations of one’s forbears 
must have lived in the same dwelling. 

In the hall hung the old family portraits. 
Gentlemen and gentlewomen, long since 


3 


34 


XTbe toaster's Violin 


gathered to their fathers, had looked down 
from their gilded frames upon many a strange 
scene. Baby footsteps had faltered on the 
stairs, and wide childish eyes had looked up 
in awe to this stately company. Older child- 
ren had wondered at the patches and the 
powdered hair, the velvet knickerbockers and 
ruffled sleeves. Awkward schoolboys had 
boasted to their mates that the jewelled 
sword, which hung at the side of a young 
officer in the uniform of the Colonies, had 
been presented by General Washington him- 
self, in recognition of conspicuous bravery 
upon the field. Lovers had led their sweet- 
hearts along the hall at twilight, to whisper 
that their portraits, too, should some day 
hang there, side by side. Soldiers of Fortune 
who had found their leader fickle had taken 
fresh courage from the set lips of the gallant 
gentlemen in the great hall. Women whose 
hearts were breaking had looked up to the 
painted and powdered dames along the wind- 
ing stairway, and learned, through some 
subtle freemasonry of sex, that only the low- 
born cry out when hurt. Faint, wailing 
voices of new-born babes had reached the 
listening ears of the portraits by night and by 


TTbe Gift of peace 


35 


day. Coffin after coffin had gone out of the 
wide door, flower-hidden, and step after step 
had died away forever, leaving only an echo 
behind. And yet the men and women of the 
line of Field looked out from their gilded 
frames, high-spirited, courageous, and serene, 
with here and there the hint of a smile. 

Far up the stairs and beyond the turn hung 
the last portrait: Aunt Peace, in the bloom of 
her mature beauty, painted soon after she had 
taken possession of the house. The dark 
hair was parted over the low brow and 
puffed slightly over the tiny ears. The flow- 
ered gown was cut modestly away at the 
throat, showing a shoulder line that had been 
famous in three counties when she was the 
belle of the countryside. For the rest, she 
was much the same. Let the artist make the 
brown hair snowy white, change the girlish 
bloom to the tint of a faded pink rose, draw 
around the eyes and the mouth a few tiny 
time-tracks, which, after all, were but the 
footprints of smiles, sadden the trustful eyes 
a bit, and cover the frivolous gown with black 
brocade, — then the mistress of the mansion, 
who moved so gaily through the house, 
would inevitably startle you as you came 


36 


Ube /©aster's IDfoIin 


upon her at the turn of the stairs, having be- 
lieved, all the time, that she was somewhere 
else. 

At the moment, she was in the garden, 
with Mrs. Irving and “the children/’ as she 
called Iris and Lynn. “Now, my talented 
nephew-once-removed,” she was saying, in 
her high, sweet voice, “ will you kindly take 
the spade and dig until you can dig no more ? 
I am well aware that it is like hitching Pegasus 
to the plough, but I have grown tired of wait- 
ing for my intermittent gardener, and there is 
a new theory to the effect that all service is 
beautiful.” 

“So it is,” laughed Lynn, turning the earth 
awkwardly. “I know what you ’re thinking 
of, mother, but it is n’t going to hurt my 
hands.” 

“You shall have a flower-bed for your 
reward,” Aunt Peace went on. “I will take 
the front yard myself, and the beds here shall 
be equally divided among you three. You 
may plant in them what you please and each 
shall attend to his own.” 

“I speak for vegetables,” said Lynn. 

“How characteristic,” murmured Iris, with 
a sidelong glance at him which sent the blood 


Ube Gift of peace 


37 


to his face. “What shall you plant, Mrs. 
Irving ? ** 

“ Roses, heartsease, and verbenas/* she re- 
plied, “and as many other things as I can get 
in without crowding. I may change my mind 
about the others, but I shall have those three. 
What are you going to have ?*’ 

“Violets and mignonette, nothing more. I 
love the sweet, modest ones the best.** 

“ Cucumbers, tomatoes, corn, melons, 
peas, asparagus,’* put in Lynn, “and what 
else?” 

“Nothing else, my son,” answered Marga- 
ret, “unless you rent a vacant acre or two. 
The seeds are small, but the plants have been 
known to spread.” 

“ I’ll have one plant of each kind, then, for 
I must assuredly have variety. It *s said to be 
* the spice of life * and that *s what we *re all 
looking for. Besides, judging from the vari- 
ous scornful remarks which have been thought, 
if not actually made, the rest of you don’t 
care for vegetables. Anyhow, you sha’n’t 
have any — except Aunt Peace.” 

“Over here now, please, Lynn,” said Miss 
Field. “ When you get that done, I ’ll tell 
you what to do next. Come, Margaret, it *s 


38 


XLbc /©aster’s tDioltn 


a little chilly here, and I don't want you to 
take cold." 

For a few moments there was quiet in the 
garden. A flock of pigeons hovered about 
Iris, taking grain from her outstretched hand, 
and cooing soft murmurs of content. The 
white dove was perched upon her shoulder, 
not at all disturbed by her various excur- 
sions to the source of supply. Lynn worked 
steadily, seemingly unconscious of the girl's 
scrutiny. 

Finally, she spoke. “ I don't want any of 
your old vegetables," she said. 

“How fortunate !" 

“You may not have any at all — I don't be- 
lieve the seeds will come up." 

“ Perhaps not — it *s quite in the nature of 
things." 

The pouter pigeon, brave in his iridescent 
waistcoat, perched upon her other shoulder, 
and Lynn straightened himself to look at her. 
From the first evening she had puzzled him. 

Her face was nearly always pale, but to-day 
she had a pretty colour in her cheeks and her 
deep, violet eyes were aglow with innocent 
mischief. There was a dewy sweetness about 
her red lips, and Lynn noted that the sheen on 


TLbc Gift of peace 


39 


the pigeon’s breast was like the gleam from 
her blue-black hair, where the sun shone 
upon it. She had a great mass of it, which 
she wore coiled on top of her small, well- 
shaped head. It was perfectly smooth, its 
riotous waves kept well in check, except at 
the blue-veined temples, where little ringlets 
clustered, unrebuked. 

“You should be practising, ” said Iris, ir- 
relevantly. 

“ So should you.” 

“ I don’t need to.” 

“Why not?” 

“ Because I ’m not going to play with you 
any more.” 

“Why, Iris?” 

“Oh,” she returned, with a little shrug of 
her shoulders, which frightened away both 
pigeons, “you didn’t like the way I played 
your last accompaniment, and so I ’ve stopped 
for good.” 

Lynn thought it only a repetition of what 
she had said when he criticised her, and 
passed it over in silence. 

“ I ’ve already done an hour,” he said, “ and 
I ’ll have time for another before lunch. I can 
get in the other two before dark, and th&n 


40 


ZTbe /toaster's IDtoUn 


I ’m going for a walk. You ’ll come with me, 
won’t you?” 

“You haven’t asked me properly,” she 
objected. 

Irving bowed and, in set, gallant phrases, 
asked Miss Temple for “the pleasure of her 
company.” 

“I’m sorry,” she answered, “but I’m 
obliged to refuse. I ’m going to make some 
little cakes for tea— the kind you like.” 

“ Bother the cakes! ” 

“Then,” laughed Iris, “ if you want me as 
much as that, 1 ’ll go. It ’s my Christian 
duty.” 

From the very beginning, Aunt Peace had 
taught Iris the principles of dainty house- 
wifery. Cleanliness came first — an exquisite 
cleanliness -which was not merely a lack of 
dust and dirt, but a positive quality. When 
the old lady’s keen eyes, reinforced by her 
strongest glasses, were unable to discern so 
much as a finger mark upon anything, Iris 
knew that it was clean, and not before. 

At first, the little untrained child had bit- 
terly rebelled, but Miss Field’s patience was 
without limit and at last Iris attained the re- 
quired degree of proficiency. She had done 


Ubc Gift of peace 


41 


her sampler, like the Colonial maids before 
her, made her white, sweet loaves, her fra- 
grant brown ones, put up her countless pots of 
clear, rich preserves, made amber and crimson 
jellies, huge jars of spiced fruits, and brewed 
ten different kinds of home-made wine. Then, 
and not till then, Iris got the womanly idea 
which was beneath it all. Perception came 
slowly, but at length she found herself in a 
beautiful comradeship with Aunt Peace. For 
sheer love of the daintiness of it, Iris beat the 
yolks of eggs in a white bowl and the whites in 
a blue one. She took pleasure out of various 
fine textures and feathery masses, sang as she 
shaped small pats of unsalted butter, tying 
them up in clover blossoms, and laughed at 
the little packets of seeds Dame Nature sends 
with her parcels. 

“See/’ said Iris, one morning, as she cut 
a juicy muskmelon and took out the seeds, 
“this means that if you like it well enough 
to work and wait, you can have lots, lots 
more.” 

Miss Field smiled, and a soft pink colour 
came into her fine, high-bred face. For one, at 
least, she had opened the way to the Fortunate 
Isles, where one’s daily work is one’s daily 


42 


Ube toaster's Violin 


happiness, and nothing is so poor as to be 
without its own appealing beauty. 

As time went on, Iris found deep and satis- 
fying pleasure in the countless little things 
that were done each day. She piled the clean 
linen in orderly rows upon the shelves, de- 
lighting in the unnamable freshness made by 
wind and sun; sniffed appreciatively at the 
cedar chest which stood in a recess of the 
upper hall, and climbed many a chair to fasten 
bunches of fragrant herbs, gathered with her 
own hands, to the rafters in the attic. 

She washed the fine old china, rubbed the 
mahogany till she could see her face in it, and 
kept the silver shining. “ A gentlewoman,” 
Aunt Peace had said, “will always be inde- 
pendent of her servants, and there are certain 
things no gentlewoman will trust her servants 
to do.” 

Upon this foundation, Aunt Peace had reared 
the beautiful superstructure of her life. Her 
hands were capable and strong, yet soft and 
white. As we learn to love the things we 
take care of, so every household possession 
became dear to her, and repaid her for her 
labours an hundred-fold. 

To be sure of doing the very best for her 


Ube 0ift of peace 


43 


adopted daughter, Miss Field had, for many 
years, kept house without a servant. Now, 
at seventy-five, she had grudgingly admitted 
one maid into her sanctum, but some of the 
work still fell to Iris, and no one ever doubted 
for an instant that the head of the household 
vigilantly guarded her own rights. 

For a long time Iris had known how use- 
less it was — that there had never been a 
moment when the old lady could not have had 
a retinue of servants at her command, but had 
it been useless after all? Remembering the 
child she had been, Iris could not but see 
the immeasurable advance the woman had 
made. 

“ Some day, my child,” Aunt Peace had said, 
“when your adopted mother is laid away with 
her ancestors in the churchyard, you will bless 
me for what I have done. You will see that 
wherever you happen to be, in whatever 
station of life God may be pleased to place 
you after I am gone, you have one thing 
which cannot be taken away from you — the 
power to make for yourself a home. You 
will be sure of your comfort independently, 
and you will never be at the mercy of the 
ignorant and the untrained. In more than one 


44 


Zbc Master's IDtoUn 


sense,” went on Miss Field, smiling, “you 
will have the gift of Peace.” 

In the house, in her favourite chair by the 
fire, the old lady was saying much the same 
thing to Margaret Irving. It was apropos of 
a book written by a member of the shrieking 
sisterhood, which had sorely stirred East 
Lancaster, set as it was in quiet ways that 
were centuries old. 

“ I have no patience with such foolishness,” 
Aunt Peace observed. “ Since Adam and Eve 
were placed in the Garden of Eden, women 
have been home-makers and men have been 
home-builders. All the work in the world is 
directly and immediately undertaken for the 
maintenance and betterment of the home. A 
woman who has no love for it is unsexed. 
God probably knew how He wanted it — at 
least we may be pardoned for supposing that 
He did. It is absolutely — but I would better 
stop, my dear. I fear I shall soon be saying 
something unladylike.” 

Margaret laughed — a low, musical laugh 
with a girlish note in it. For a long time she 
had not been so happy as she was to-day. 

“To quote a famous historian,” she replied, 
“a book like that ‘ carries within itself the 


XTbe (Bift of peace 


45 


germs of its decay.’ You need have no fear, 
Aunt Peace ; the home will stand. This single 
house, this beautiful old home of yours, has 
lasted two centuries, has n’t it, just as it is ? ” 

" Yes,” sighed the other, after a pause, 
"they built well in those days.” 

The charm of the room was upon them 
both. Through the open door they could see 
the long line of portraits in the hall, and the 
house seemed peopled with friendly ghosts, 
whose memories and loves still lived. Be- 
cause she had recently come from a city apart- 
ment, Margaret looked down the spacious 
vista, ending at a long mirror, with an ever- 
increasing sense of delight. 

"My dear,” said Miss Field, "I have al- 
ways felt that this house should have come 
to you.” 

“ I have never felt so,” answered Margaret. 
" I have never for a moment begrudged it to 
you. You know my father died suddenly, 
and his will, made long before I was born, 
had not been changed. So what was more 
natural than for my mother to have the house 
during her lifetime, with the provision that it 
should revert to his favourite sister afterward, 
if she still lived ? ” 


46 


Ube Master's IDioUn 


“ I have cheated you by living, Margaret, 
and your mother was cut off in her prime. 
She was a hard woman.” 

“Yes,” sighed Margaret, “she was. But 
I think she meant to be kind.” 

“ I knew her very little ; in fact, the only 
chance that I ever had to get acquainted with 
her was when I came here for a short visit 
just after you were married. The house had 
been closed for a long time. She took you 
away with her, and when she came back she 
was alone. Then she wrote to me, asking 
me to share her loneliness for a time, and I 
consented.” 

The way was open for confidences, but 
Margaret made none, and Aunt Peace re- 
spected her for it. 

“We never knew each other very well, 
did we ? ” asked the old lady, in a tone that 
indicated no need of an answer. “ I remem- 
ber that when I was here I yearned over you 
just as I did over Iris several years later. I 
wanted to give to you out of my abundance ; 
to make you happy and comfortable.” 

“Dear Aunt Peace,” said Margaret, softly, 
“you are doing it now, when perhaps I need 
it even more than I did then. All your life 


Ube ©iff of peace 


47 


you have been making people happy and 
comfortable.” 

“ I hope so — it is what I have tried to do. 
By the way, when I am through with it, this 
house goes to you, then to Lynn and his 
children after him.” 

“Thank you.” For an instant Margaret’s 
pulses throbbed with the joy of possession, 
then the blood retreated from her heart in 
shame. 

“ I have made ample provision for Iris,” 
Miss Field went on. “ She is my own dear 
daughter, but she is not of our line.” 

At this moment, Iris came around the 
house, laughing and screaming, with Lynn in 
full pursuit. Mrs. Irving went to the win- 
dow and came back with an amused light in 
her eyes. 

“What is the matter?” asked Aunt Peace. 

“ Lynn is chasing her. He had something 
in his fingers that looked like an angle- 
worm.” 

“No doubt. Iris is afraid of worms/’ 

“ I’ll go out and speak to him.” 

“ No — let them fight it out. We are never 
young but once, and Youth asks no greater 
privilege than to fight its own battles. It 


48 


Ube /toaster's IDiolfn 


is mistaken kindness to shield— it weakens 
one in the years to come.” 

“ Youth,” repeated Margaret. “The most 
beautiful gift of the gods, which we never 
appreciate until it is gone forever.” 

“I have kept mine,” said Aunt Peace. “I 
have deliberately forgotten all the unpleasant 
things and remembered the others. When 
a little pleasure has flashed for a moment 
against the dark, I have made that jewel 
mine. I have hundreds of them, from the 
time my baby fingers clasped my first rose, 
to the night you and Lynn came to bring 
more sunshine into my old life. I call it my 
Necklace of Perfect Joy. When the world 
goes wrong, I have only to close my eyes and 
remember all the links in my chain, set with 
gems, some large and some small, but all 
beautiful with the beauty which never fades. 
It is all I can take with me when I go. My 
material possessions must stay behind, but 
my Necklace of Perfect Joy will bring me 
happiness to the end, when I put it on, to 
be nevermore unclasped.” 

“Aunt Peace,” asked Margaret, after an 
understanding silence, “ why did you never 
marry ? ” 


Zbc Gift of peace 


49 


Miss Field leaned forward and methodically 
stirred the fire. “I may be wrong,” she 
said, “but 1 have always felt that it was in- 
delicate to allow one’s self to care for a 
gentleman.” 

4 


IV 

Social position 

O N Wednesday, the dullest person might 
have felt that there was something in 
the air. The old house, already exquisitely 
clean, received further polishing without pro- 
test. Savoury odours came from the kitchen, 
and Iris rubbed the tall silver candlesticks 
until they shone like new. 

“What is it?” asked Lynn. “Are we 
going to have a party and am I invited ?” 

“ It is Wednesday,” explained Iris. 

“ Well, what of it?” 

“Doctor Brinkerhoff comes to see Aunt 
Peace every Wednesday evening.” 

“Who is Doctor Brinkerhoff?” 

“The family physician of East Lancaster.” 

“ He was n’t here last Wednesday.” 

“ That was because you and your mother 
had just come. Aunt Peace sent him a note, 
saying that her attention was for the moment 


Social position 


51 


occupied by other guests from out of town. 
It was the first Wednesday evening he has 
missed for more than ten years.” 

“ Oh,” said Lynn. “ Are they going to be 
married ? ” 

“Aunt Peace wouldn't marry anybody. 
She receives Doctor Brinkerhoff because she 
is sorry for him.” 

“ He has no social position,” Iris continued, 
feeling the unspoken question. “He is not 
of our class and he used to live in West 
Lancaster, but Aunt Peace says that any gen- 
tleman who is received by a lady in her bed- 
room may also be received in her parlour. 
Another lady, who thinks as Aunt Peace does, 
entertains him on Saturday evenings.” 

Iris sat there demurely, her rosy lips primly 
pursed, and vigorously rubbed the tall candle- 
stick. Lynn fairly choked with laughter. 
“ Oh,” he cried, “ you funny little thing ! ” 

“lam not a little thing and I am not funny. 
I consider you very impertinent.” 

“What is ‘social position'?” asked Irv- 
ing, instantly sobering. “ How do we get 
it?” 

“It is born with us,” answered Iris, dip- 
ping her flannel cloth in ammonia, “and we 


52 


XTbe Master's IDioltn 


have to live up to it. If we have low tastes, 
we lose it, and it never comes back.” 

‘‘Wonder if I have it,” mused Lynn. 

“ Of course,” Iris assured him. “You are 
a grand-nephew of Aunt Peace, but not so 
nearly related as I, because I am her legal 
daughter. I was born of poor but honest 
parents,” she went on, having evidently ab- 
sorbed the phrase from her school Reader, 
“so I was respectable, even at the beginning. 
When Aunt Peace took me, I got social po- 
sition, and if I am always a lady, I will keep 
it. Otherwise not.” 

The girl was very lovely as she leaned back 
in the quaint old chair to rest for a moment. 
She was still regarding the candlestick atten- 
tively and did not look at Lynn. “It is 
strange to me,” she said, “that coming from 
the city, as you do, you should not know 
about such things.” Here she sent him the 
quickest possible glance from a pair of in- 
scrutable eyes, and he began to wonder if 
she were not merely amusing herself. He 
was tempted to kiss her, but wisely re- 
frained. 

“ Iris,” called Aunt Peace, from the door- 
way, “will you wash the Royal Worcester 


Social position 


53 


plate ? And Lynn, it is time you were 
practising.” 

Lynn worked hard until the bell rang for 
luncheon. When he went down, he found 
the others already at the table. “We did not 
wait for you,” Aunt Peace explained, “be- 
cause we were in a hurry. Immediately 
after luncheon, on Wednesdays, I take my 
nap. 1 sleep from two to three. Will you 
please see that the house is quiet?” 

She spoke to Margaret, but she looked 
at Lynn. “Which means,” said he, “that 
those who are studying the violin will 
kindly not practise until after three o’clock, 
and that it would be considered a kindness 
if they would not walk much in the house, 
their feet being heavy.” 

“ Lynn,” said the old lady, irrelevantly, 
“you are extremely intelligent. I expect 
great things of you.” 

That weekly hour of luxury was the only 
relaxation in Miss Field’s busy, happy life. 
Breakfast at seven and bed at ten — this was 
the ironclad rule of the house. Ever since 
she came to East Lancaster, Iris had kept 
solemn guard over the front door on 
Wednesdays, from two to three. Rash 


54 


XTbe flDaster’s IDtolin 


visitors never reached the bell, but were 
met, on the doorstep, by a little maid whose 
tiny finger rested upon her lip. “ Hush,’* she 
would say, “Aunt Peace is asleep ! ’* Inter- 
ruptions were infrequent, however, for East 
Lancaster knew Miss Field’s habits — and re- 
spected them. 

“Good-bye, my dears/* she said, as she 
paused at the foot of the winding stairs, “ I 
leave you for a far country, where, perhaps, I 
shall meet some of my old friends. I shall 
visit strange lands and have many new ex- 
periences, some of which will doubtless be 
impossible and grotesque. I shall be gone 
but one short hour, and when I return I shall 
have much to tell you. ’* 

“She dreams,** explained Iris, in a low 
voice, as the mistress of the mansion smiled 
back at them over the railing, “and when she 
wakes she always tells me.’* 

Lynn went out for a long tramp, after vainly 
endeavouring to persuade his mother or Iris 
to accompany him. “ I *m walked enough at 
night as it is,” said Mrs. Irving, and the girl 
excused herself on account of her household 
duties. 

He clattered down the steps, banged the 


Social position 


55 


gate, and went whistling down the elm- 
bordered path. The mother listened, fondly, 
till the cheery notes died away in the distance. 

‘ ‘ Bless his heart, ” she said to herself, ‘ * how fi ne 
and strong he is and how much I love him ! ” 
The house seemed to wait while its guardian 
spirit slept. Left to herself, Margaret paced 
to and fro; down the long hall, then back, 
through the parlour and library, and so on, 
restlessly, until she reflected that she might 
possibly disturb Aunt Peace. 

A love-lorn robin, in the overhanging 
boughs of the maple at the gate, was unsuc- 
cessfully courting a disdainful lady who sat on 
the topmost twig and paid no attention to 
him. From the distant orchard came the 
breath of apple blooms, and a single bluebird 
winged his solitary way across the fields, his 
colour gleaming brightly for an instant against 
the silvery clouds. Beautiful as it was, Mar- 
garet sighed, and her face lost its serenity. 

A bit of verse sang itself through her mem- 
ory again and again. 

“ Who wins his love shall lose her, 

Who loses her shall gain, 

For still the spirit wooes her, 

A soul without a stain, 


56 


Ube /Caster’s Wolfit 


And memory still pursues her 
With longings not in vain. 

“ In dreams she grows not older 
The lands of Dream among; 

Though all the world wax colder, 

Though all the songs be sung, 

In dreams doth he behold her — 

Still fair and kind and young." 

“ Dreams,” she murmured, " empty dreams, 
while your soul starves.” 

Iris tiptoed in with her sewing and sat 
down. Margaret felt her presence in the 
room, but did not turn away from the win- 
dow. Iris was one of those rare people with 
whom one could be silent and not feel that 
the proprieties had been injured. 

Deep down in her heart, Margaret had 
stored away all the bitterness of her life — that 
single drop which is well enough when left 
by itself, because it is of a different specific 
gravity. When the cup is stirred, the lees 
taint the whole, and it takes time for the re- 
adjustment. Were it not for the merciful 
readjustment, this grey old world of ours 
would be too dark to live in. 

At length she turned and looked at the little 
seamstress, who sat bolt upright, as she had 


Social position 


57 


been taught, in the carved mahogany chair. 
She noted the long lashes that swept the 
tinted cheek, the masses of blue-black hail 
over the low, white brow, the tender wistful- 
ness in the lines of the mouth, the dimpled 
hands, and the rounded arm — so evidently 
made for all the sweet uses of love that Mar- 
garet’s heart contracted in sudden pain. 

“ Iris,” she said, in a tone that startled the 
girl, “when the right man comes, and you 
know absolutely in your own heart that he is 
the right man, go with him, whether he be 
prince or beggar. If unhappiness comes to 
you, take it bravely, as a gentlewoman should, 
but never, for your own sake, allow yourself 
to regret your faith in him. If you love him 
and he loves you, there are no barriers be- 
tween you — they are nothing but cobwebs. 
Sweep them aside with a single stroke of 
magnificent daring, and go. Social position 
counts for nothing, other people’s opinions 
count for nothing; it is between your heart 
and his, and in that sanctuary no one else has 
a right to intrude. If he has only a crust 
to give you, share it with him, but do not let 
anyone persuade you into a lifetime of heart- 
hunger — it is too hard to bear! ” 


58 


TLhc Master's IDiolin 


The girl’s deep eyes were fixed upon her, 
childish, appealing, and yet with evident 
understanding. Margaret’s face was full of 
tender pity — was this butterfly, too, destined 
to be broken on the wheel ? 

Iris felt the sudden passion of the other, 
saw traces of suffering in the dark eyes, 
the set lips, and even in the slender hands 
that hovered whitely over the black gown. 
“Thank you, Mrs. Irving,” she said, quietly, 
“I understand.” 

The minutes ticked by, and no other word 
was spoken. At half-past three, precisely, 
Aunt Peace came back. She had on her best 
gown — a soft, heavy black silk, simply made. 
At the neck and wrists were bits of rare old 
lace, and her one jewel, an emerald of great 
beauty and value, gleamed at her throat. She 
wore no rings except the worn band of gold 
that had been her mother’s wedding ring. 

“ What did you dream ? ” asked Iris. 

“Nothing, dearie,” she laughed. “I have 
never slept so soundly before. Our guests 
have put a charm upon the house.” 

From the embroidered work-bag that dan- 
gled at her side, she took out the thread lace she 
was making, and began to count her stitches. 


Social iposition 


59 


“I think I’ll get my sewing, too/’ said 
Margaret. “I feel like a drone in this hive 
of industry.” 

“One, two, three, chain,” said Aunt Peace. 
“Iris, do you think the cakes are as good 
as they were last time ? ” 

“ 1 think they ’re even better.” 

“ Did you take out the oldest port ?” 

“Yes, the very oldest.” 

“ I trust he was not hurt,” Aunt Peace went 
on, “because last week I asked him not to 
come. The common people sometimes feel 
those things more keenly than aristocrats, who 
are accustomed to the disturbance of guests.” 

“Of course, he would be disappointed,” 
said Iris, with a little smile, “but he would 
understand — I ’m sure he would/ 

When Margaret came back she had a white, 
fluffy garment over her arm. Who would have 
thought,” she cried, gaily, “that I should ever 
have the time to make myself a petticoat by 
hand! The atmosphere of East Lancaster has 
wrought a wondrous change in me.” 

“Iris,” said Miss Field, “let me see your 
stitches.” 

The girl held up her petticoat — a dainty 
garment of finest cambric, lace-trimmed and 


6o 


XTbe Master's tittolin 


exquisitely made, and the old lady examined 
it critically. “It is not what I could do at 
your age,” she continued, “but it will answer 
very well.” 

Lynn came in noisily, remembering only at 
the threshold that one did not whistle in East 
Lancaster houses. “I had a fine tramp,” he 
said, “all over West Lancaster and through 
the woods on both sides of it I had some 
flowers for all of you, but I laid them down on a 
stone and forgot to go back after them. Aunt 
Peace, you ’re looking fine since you had your 
nap. Still working at that petticoat, mother ? ” 

“We’re all making petticoats,” answered 
Margaret. “ Even Aunt Peace is knitting lace 
for one and Iris has hers almost done.” 

“Let me see it,” said Lynn. He reached 
over and took it out of the girl’s lap while she 
was threading her needle. Much to his sur- 
prise, it was immediately snatched away from 
him. Iris paused only long enough to ad- 
minister a sounding box to the offender’s ear, 
then marched out of the room with her head 
high and her work under her arm. 

“ Well, of all things,” said Lynn, ruefully. 
“Why would n’t she let me look at her 
petticoat ? ” 


Social position 


61 


“ Because," answered Aunt Peace, severely, 
“ Iris has been brought up like a lady ! Gentle- 
men did not expect to see ladies' petticoats 
when I was young! ” 

“Oh," said Lynn, “I see." His mouth 
twitched and he glanced sideways at his 
mother. She was bending over her work, 
and her lips did not move, but he could see 
that her eyes smiled. 

At exactly half-past seven, the expected 
guest was ushered into the parlour. “Good 
evening, Doctor," said Miss Field, in her 
stately way; “I assure you this is quite a 
pleasure." She presented him to Mrs. Irving 
and Lynn, and motioned him to an easy-chair. 

He was tall, straight, and seventy; almost 
painfully neat, and evidently a gentleman of 
the old school. 

“ I trust you are well, madam ?" 

“ I am always well," returned Aunt Peace. 
“ If all the other old ladies in East Lancaster 
were as well as I, you would soon be obliged 
to take down your sign and seek another 
location.” 

The others took but small part in the con- 
versation, which was never lively, and which, 


62 


Ubc Master's IDioUn 


indeed, might have been stilted by the pres- 
ence of strangers. It was the commonplace 
talk of little things, which distinguishes the 
country town, and it lasted for half an hour. 
As the clock chimed eight, Miss Field smiled 
at him significantly. 

“ Shall we play chess ? ” she asked. 

“ If the others will excuse us, I shall be 
charmed/* he responded. 

Soon they were deep in their game. Mar- 
garet went after a book she had been reading, 
and the young people went to the library, 
where they could talk undisturbed. 

They played three games. Miss Field won 
the first and third, her antagonist contenting 
himself with the second. It had always been 
so, and for ten years she had taken a childish 
delight in her skill. “ My dear Doctor/* she 
often said, “it takes a woman of brains to 
play chess.’* 

“ It does, indeed/* he invariably answered, 
with an air of gallantry. Once he had been 
indiscreet and had won all three games, but 
that was in the beginning and it had never 
happened since. 

When the clock struck ten, he looked at his 
heavy, old-fashioned silver watch with appar- 


Social position 


63 


ent surprise. “ I had no idea it was so late/' 
he said. “ I must be going ! ” 

“Pray wait a moment, Doctor. Let me 
offer you some refreshment before you begin 
that long walk. Iris ? ” 

“Yes, Aunt Peace.” The girl knew very 
well what was expected of her, and dimples 
came and went around the corners of her 
mouth- 

“Those little cakes that we had for tea — 
perhaps there may be one or two left, and is 
there not a little wine ? ” 

“ 1 ’ll see. ” 

Smiling at the pretty comedy, she went out 
into the kitchen, where Doctor Brinkerhoffs 
favourite cakes, freshly made, had been care- 
fully put away. Only one of them had been 
touched, and that merely to make sure of the 
quality. 

With the Royal Worcester plate, gen- 
erously piled with cakes, a tray of glasses, and 
a decanter of Miss Field’s famous port, she 
went back into the parlour. 

“This is very charming,” said the Doctor. 
He had made the same speech once a week 
for ten years. Aunt Peace filled the glasses, 
and when all had been served, she looked at 


64 


XTbe /Easter's Diolin 


him with a rare smile upon her beautiful old 
face. 

Then the brim of his glass touched hers 
with the clear ring of crystal. “To your 
good health, madam ! ” 

“And to your prosperity/’ she returned. 
The old toast still served. 

“ And now, my dear Miss Iris,” he said, 
“may we not hope for a song ? ” 

“Which one?” 

“ ‘Annie Laurie,’ if you please. ” 

She sang the old ballad with a wealth of 
feeling in her deep voice, and even Lynn, 
who was listening critically, was forced to 
admit that she did it well. 

At eleven, the guest went away, his hostess 
cordially inviting him to come again. 

“What a charming man,” said Margaret. 

“An old brick,” added Lynn, with more 
force than elegance. 

“Yes,” replied Aunt Peace, concealing a 
yawn behind her fan, “it is a thousand pities 
that he has no social position.” 


V 

Cbe Xigbt of Dreams 

“T T OW do you get on with the Master ?” 
’ i asked Iris. 

“ After a fashion, ” answered Irving; “but I 
do not get on with Fraulein Fredrika at alL 
She despises me.“ 

“She does not like many people.” 

“ So it would seem. I have been unfor- 
tunate from the first, though I was careful to 
admire * mine crazy jug.* ” 

“ It is the apple of her eye,” laughed Iris, 
“it means to her just what his Cremona 
means to him.” 

“It is a wonderful creation, and I told her 
so, but where in the dickens did she get the 
idea ?” 

“Don’t ask me. Did you happen to 
notice anything else ? ” 

“No — only the violin. Sometimes I take 
my lesson in the parlour, sometimes in the 


66 


Ube toaster's IDioUn 


shop downstairs, or even in Herr Kaufmann’s 
bedroom, which opens off of it. When I come, 
he stops whatever he happens to be doing, 
sits down, and proceeds with my education. ” 
“On the floor/’ said Iris reminiscently, “she 
has a gold jar which contains cat tails and 
grasses. It is Herr Kaufmann’s silk hat, 
which he used to have when he played in the 
famous orchestra, with the brim cut off and 
plenty of gold paint put on. The gilded 
potato- masher, with blue roses on it, which 
swings from the hanging lamp, was done by 
your humble servant. She has loved me 
ever since.” 

“Iris!” exclaimed Lynn, reproachfully. 
“ How could you ! ” 

“ How could I what ? ” 

“ Paint anything so outrageous as that ? ” 

“ My dear boy,” said Miss Temple, patron- 
isingly, with her pretty head a little to one 
side, “you are young in the ways of the 
world. I was not achieving a work of art ; 
1 was merely giving pleasure to the Fraulein. 
Much trouble would be saved if people who 
undertake to give pleasure would consult the 
wishes of the recipient in preference to their 
own. Tastes differ, as even you may have ob- 


TTbe Xtgbt of Breams 


67 


served. Personally, I have no use for a 
gilded potato-masher — I couldn't even live 
in the same house with one, — but I was 
pleasing her, not myself." 

“ I wonder what I could do that would 
please her," said Lynn, half to himself. 

“Make her something out of nothing," 
suggested Iris. “She would like that better 
than anything else. She has a wall basket 
made of a fish broiler, a chair that was once a 
barrel, a dresser which has been evolved from 
a packing box, a sofa that was primarily a 
cot, and a match box made from a tin cup 
covered with silk and gilded on the inside, 
not to mention heaps of other things." 

“Then what is left for me? The desirable 
things seem to have been used up." 

“Wait," said Iris, “and I'll show you." 
She ran off gaily, humming a little song un- 
der her breath, and came back presently with 
a clothes-pin, a sheet of orange-coloured 
tissue paper, an old black ostrich feather, and 
her paints. 

“What in the world — " began Lynn. 

“Don't be impatient, please. Make the 
clothes-pin gold, with a black head, and then 
I 'II show you what to do next." 


68 


XCbe /Caster’s Dfoifn 


“ Aren’t you going to help me ? ” 

* 4 Only with my valuable advice — it is 
your gift, you know.” 

Awkwardly, Lynn gilded the clothes-pin 
and suspended it from the back of a chair 
to dry. “I hope she’ll like it,” he said. 
“ She pointed to me once and said something 
in German to her brother. I did n’t under- 
stand, but I remembered the words, and when 
I got home 1 looked them up in my diction- 
ary. As nearly as I could get it, she had 
characterised me as ‘a big, lumbering calf.’” 

“ Discerning woman,” commented Iris. 
‘‘Now, take this sheet of tissue paper and 
squeeze it up into a little ball, then straighten 
it out and do it again. When it ’s all soft and 
crinkly, 1 ’ll tell you what to do next” 

“There,” exclaimed Lynn, finally, “if it’s 
squeezed up any more it will break.” 

“ Now paint the head of the clothes-pin and 
make some straight black lines on the middle 
of it, crossways.” 

“Will you please tell me what I’m 
making ? ” 

“Wait and see 1 ” 

Obeying instructions, he fastened the paper 
tightly in the fork of the clothes-pin, and 


Ube Xtgbt of Breams 


69 


spread it out on either side. The corners 
were cut and pulled into the semblance 
of wings, and black circles were painted 
here and there. Iris herself added the 
finishing touch — two bits of the ostrich 
feather glued to the top of the head for 
antennae. 

“ Oh,” cried Lynn, in pleased surprise, 
“ a butterfly ! ” 

“ How hideous ! ” said Margaret, pausing 
in the doorway. “I trust it’s not meant for 
me.” 

“It’s for the Fraulein,” answered Iris, 
gathering up her paints and sweeping aside the 
litter. * 4 Lynn has made it all by himself.” 

“I wonder how he stands it,” mused Ir- 
ving, critically inspecting the butterfly. 

“ I asked him once,” said Iris, “if he liked 
all the queer things in his house, and he 
shrugged his shoulders. * What good is 
mine art to me/ he asked, ‘ if it makes me so 
1 cannot live with mine sister? Fredrika 
likes the gay colours, such as one sees in the 
fields, but they hurt mine eyes. Still because 
the tidies and the crazy jug swear to me, it is 
no reason for me to hurt mine sister's feelings. 
We have a large house. Fredrika has the 


70 


Zbc /©aster's IDtoHit 


upstairs and I have the downstairs. When I 
can no longer stand the bright lights, I can 
turn mine back and look out of the window, 
or I can go down in the shop with mine vio- 
lins. Down there I see no colours and I can 
put mine feet on all chairs.’” 

Lynn laughed, but Margaret, who was lis- 
tening intently, only smiled sadly. 

That afternoon, when the boy went up the 
hill, with the butterfly dangling from his hand 
by a string, he was greeted with childish 
cries of delight on either side. Hoping for 
equal success at the Master’s, he rang the bell, 
and the Fniulein came to the door. When 
she saw who it was, her face instantly be- 
came hard and forbidding. 

4 ‘Mine brudder is not home,” she said, 
frostily. 

“ I know,” answered Lynn, with a winning 
smile, “but 1 came to see you. See, I made 
this for you.” 

Wonder and delight were in her eyes as 
she took it from his outstretched hand. “ For 
me?” 

“ Yes, all for you. I made it.” 

“ You make this for me by yourself alone ?” 

“No, Miss Temple helped me.” 


Ube Xigbt of Dreams 


71 


“ Miss Temple,” repeated the Fraulein, “ she 
is most kind. And you likewise,” she hast- 
ened to add. “ It will be of a niceness if Miss 
Temple and you shall come to mine house to 
tea to-morrow evening.” 

“I’ll ask her,” he returned, ‘‘and thank 
you very much.” Thus Lynn made his peace 
with Fraulein Fredrika. 

Laughing like two irresponsible children, 
they went up the hill together at the appointed 
time. Lynn’s arms were full of wild crab- 
apple blooms, which he had taken a long 
walk to find, and Iris had two little pots of 
preserves as her contribution to the feast. 

Their host and hostess were waiting for 
them at the door. Fraulein Fredrika was 
very elegant in her best gown, and her sharp 
eyes were kind. The Master was clad in 
rusty black, which bore marks of frequent 
sponging and occasional pressing. “ It is 
most kind,” he said, bowing gallantly to Iris; 
“ and you, young man, I am glad to see you, 
as always.” 

Iris found a stone jar for the apple blossoms 
and brought them in. The Master’s fine old 
face beamed as he drew a long breath of pink 


72 


Ube toaster's Wolfit 


and white sweetness." It is like magic," he 
said. ‘‘I think inside of every tree there 
must be some beautiful young lady, such as 
we read about in the old books — a young 
lady something like Miss Iris. All Winter, 
when it is cold, she sleeps in her soft bed, 
made from the silk lining of the bark. Then 
one day the sun shines warm and the robin 
sings to her and wakes her. ‘What/ says 
she, Ms it so soon Spring? I must get to 
work right away at mine apple blossoms.* 

“ Then she stoops down for some sand 
and some dirt In her hands she moulds it — 
so — reaching out for some rain to keep it 
together. Then she says one charm. With 
a forked stick she packs it into every little 
place inside that apple tree and sprinkles 
some more of it over the outside. 

“‘Now,* says she, ‘we must wait, for I 
have done mine work well. It is for the sun 
and the wind and the rain to finish. So the 
rain makes all very wet, and the wind blows 
and the sun shines, and presently the sand and 
dirt that she has put in is changed to sap that 
is so glad it runs like one squirrel all over the 
inside of the tree and tries to sing like one bird. 

‘“So,* says this young lady, ‘it is as I 


Ube Xtgbt of Dreams 


73 


thought.* Then she says one more charm, 
and when the sun comes up in the morning, 
it sees that the branches are all covered with 
buds and leaves. The young lady and the 
moon work one little while at it in the even- 
ing, and the next morning, there is — this! ” 

The Master buried his face in the fragrant 
blooms. “ It is a most wonderful sweetness,** 
he went on. “ It is wind and grass and sun, 
and the souls of all the apple blossoms that 
are dead.** 

“Franz,** called Fraulein Fredrika, “you 
will bring them out to tea, yes ?** 

As the entertainment progressed, Lynn's 
admiration of Iris increased. She seemed 
equally at home in Miss Field’s stately man- 
sion and in the tiny bird-house on the brink of 
a precipice, where everything appeared to be 
made out of something else. She was in 
high spirits and kept them all laughing. Yet, 
in spite of her merry chatter, there was an 
undertone of tender wistfulness that set his 
heart to beating. 

The Master, too, was at his best. Usually, 
he was reserved and quiet, but to-night the 
barriers were down. He told them stories 
of his student days in Germany, wonderful 


74 


XTbe toaster’s tlttoUn 


adventures by land and sea, and conjured up 
glimpses of the kings and queens of the Old 
World. “ Life,” he sighed, “ is very strange. 
One begins within an hour’s walk of the 
Imperial Palace, where sometimes one may 
see the Kaiser and the Kaiserin, and one ends 
—here!” 

‘‘Wherever one may be, that is the best 
place,” said the Fraulein. “The dear God 
knows. Yet sometimes I, too, must think of 
mine Germany and wish for it.” 

“ Fredrika! ” cried the Master, “ are you not 
happy here ?” 

“ Indeed, yes, Franz, always.” Her harsh 
voice was softened and her piercing eyes 
were misty. One saw that, however car 
fully hidden, there was great love between 
these two. 

Iris helped the Fraulein with the dishes, in 
spite of her protests. “One does not ask 
one’s guests to help with the work,” she said. 

“But just suppose,” answered Iris, laugh- 
ing, “that one’s guests have washed dishes 
hundreds of times at home ! ” 

In the parlou;, meanwhile, the Master 
talked to Lynn. He told him of great vio- 
linists he had heard and of famous old violins 


Ubc Xigbt ot Dreams 


75 


he had seen — but there was never a word 
about the Cremona. 

“ Mine friend, the Doctor,” said the Master, 
“ do you perchance know him ? ” 

“Yes,” answered Lynn, “I have that 
pleasure. He ’s all right, is n’t he ? ” 

“ So he thinks,” returned the Master, miss- 
ing the point of the phrase. “ In an argu- 
ment, one can never convince him. He 
thinks it is for me to go out on one grand 
tour and give many concerts and secure much 
fame, but why should I go, 1 ask him, when 
I am happy here ? So many people know 
what should make one happy a thousand 
times better than the happy one knows. 
Life,” he said again, “is very strange.” 

It was a long time before he spoke again. 
“I have had mine fame,” he said. “I have 
played to great houses both here and abroad, 
and women have thrown red roses at me and 
mine violin. There has been much in the 
papers, and I have had many large sums, 
which, of course, I have always given to the 
poor. One should use one’s art to do good 
with and not to become rich. I have mine 
house, mine clothes, all that is good for me 
to eat, mine sister and mine — ” he hesitated 


76 


Ttbe /©aster’s IDtoUrt 


for an instant, and Lynn knew he was think- 
ing of the Cremona. “ Mine violins,” he con- 
cluded, “mine little shop where I make them, 
and best of all, mine dreams.” 

Iris came back and Fraulein Fredrika fol- 
lowed her. “ If you will give me all the little 
shells,” she was saying, “I will stick them 
together with glue and make mineself one 
little house to sit on the parlour table. It will 
be most kind.” Her voice was caressing and 
her face fairly shone with joy. 

“ I will light the lamp,” she went on. “ It 
is dark here now.” Suiting the action to the 
word, she pulled down the lamp that hung 
by heavy chains in the centre of the room, 
and the gilded potato-masher swung back 
and forth violently. 

“No, no, Fredrika,” said the Master. “It 
is not a necessity to light the lamp.” 

“Herr Irving,” she began, “would you 
not like the lamp to see by ? ” 

“Not at all,” answered Lynn. “1 like the 
twilight best.” 

“Come, Fraulein,” said Iris, “sit over here 
by me. Did I tell you how you could make 
a little clothes-brush out of braided rope and 
a bit of blue ribbon ? ” 


Ubc %i$bt of Dreams 


77 


“No,” returned the Fraulein, excitedly, 
“you did not. It will be most kind if you 
will do it now.” 

The women talked in low tones and the 
others were silent without listening. The 
street was in shadow, and here and there lan- 
terns flashed in the dark. Down in the valley, 
velvety night was laid over the river and the 
willows that grew along its margin, but the 
last light lingered on the blue hills above, and 
a single star had set its exquisite lamp to 
gleaming against the afterglow. 

The wings of darkness hovered over the 
little house, and yet no word was spoken. 
It was an intimate hush, such as sometimes 
falls between lovers, who have no need of 
speech. Lynn and Iris looked forward to 
the future, with the limitless hope of Youth, 
while the others brooded over a past which 
had brought each of them a generous measure 
of joy and pain. 

The full moon came out from behind the 
clouds and flooded the valley with silver 
light. “Oh,” cried Iris, “how glorious it 
is!” 

“ Yes,” said the Master, “ it is the light of 
dreams. All the ugliness is hidden, as in life. 


7 » 


Ube toaster's tDtoUn 


when one can dream. Only the beauty is 
left Wait, 1 will play it to you.” 

He went downstairs for his violin and Lynn 
moved closer to Iris. Fraulein Fredrika re- 
treated into the shadow at the farthest corner 
of the room. 

Presently the Master returned, snapping 
and tightening the strings. It was not the 
Cremona, but the other. He sat down by 
the window and the moonlight touched his 
face caressingly. He was grey with his fifty 
years and more, but as he sat there, his mas- 
sive head thrown back and his hair silvered, 
he seemed very near to the Gates of Youth. 

In a moment, he was lost to his surround- 
ings. He tapped the bow on the sill, as an 
orchestra leader taps for attention, straight- 
ened himself, smiled, and began. 

It was a rippling, laughing melody, played 
on muted strings, full of unexpected har- 
monies, and quaintly phrased. In a moment, 
they caught the witchery of it, and the mean- 
ing. It was Titania and her fairies, suddenly 
transported half-way around the world. 

Mystery and magic were in the theme. 
Moonbeams shimmered through it, elves 
played here and there, and shining waters 


TEbe Xtgbt of ©teams 


79 


sang through Summer silences. All at once 
there was a pause, then, sonorous, deep, and 
splendid, came another harmony, which in 
impassioned beauty voiced the ministry of 
pain. 

As before, Lynn saw chiefly the technique. 
Never for a moment did he forget the instru- 
ment. Iris was trembling, for she well knew 
those high and lonely places of the spirit, 
within the borders of Gethsemane. 

The Master put down the violin and sighed. 
“Come,” faltered Iris, “it is late and we 
must go.” 

He did not hear, and it was Fraulein 
Fredrika who went to the door with them. 
“Franz is thinking,” she whispered. “He 
is often like that. He will be most sorry 
when he learns that you have gone.” 

“This way,” said Iris, when they reached 
the street. They went to the brow of the 
cliff and looked once more across the 
shadowed valley to the luminous ranges of 
the everlasting hills. She turned away at last, 
thrilled to the depths of her soul. “Come,” 
she whispered, “we must go back.” 

They walked softly, as though they feared 
to disturb someone in the little house, but 


8o 


Ube toaster's Dtoltn 


there was no sound from within nor any 
light save at the window, where the light of 
dreams streamed over the Master's face and 
made it young. 


VI 

H letter 

R OSES rioted through East Lancaster and 
made the gardens glorious with bloom. 
The year was at its bridal and every chalice 
was filled with fragrant incense. Bees, pow- 
dered with pollen, hummed slowly back and 
forth, and the soft whir of unnumbered gos- 
samer wings came in drowsy melody from 
the distant clover fields. 

“June/' sang Iris to herself, “June — Oh 
June, sweet June!” 

She was getting ready for her daily trip to 
the post-office. Once in a great while there 
would be a letter there for Aunt Peace or Mrs. 
Irving. Lynn also had an intermittent cor- 
respondent or two, but the errand usually 
proved fruitless. Still, since Mrs. Irving’s 
letter had lain nearly two weeks in Miss 
Field’s box, uncalled for, it had been a point 
of honour with Iris to see that such a thing 

did not happen again. 

6 


82 


Ubc /Master’s WioUn 


Books and papers were supplied in abund- 
ance by the local circulating library, and the 
high bookcases at Miss Field’s were well 
filled with standard literature. Iris read every- 
thing she could lay her hands upon. Mere 
print exercised a certain fascination over her 
mind, and she had conscientiously finished 
every booic that she had begun. Those early 
years, after all, are the most important. The 
old books are the best, and how few of us 
“ have the timo ” to read them! 

Ten years of browsing in a well equipped 
library will do much for anyone, and Iris had 
made the most of her opportunities. This 
girl of twenty, hemmed about by the narrow 
standards of East Lancaster, had a broad out- 
look upon life, a large view, that would have 
done credit to a woman of twice her age. 
From the beginning, the people of the books 
had been real to her, and she had filled the 
old house with the fairy figures of romance. 

Of the things that make for happiness, the 
love of books comes first. No matter how 
the world may have used us, sure solace lies 
there. The weary, toilsome day drags to its 
disheartening close, and both love and friend- 
ship have proved powerless to appreciate or 


B Xetter 


83 


understand, but in the quiet corner consola- 
tion can always be found. A single shelf, 
perhaps, suffices for one’s few treasures, but 
who shall say it is not enough ? 

A book, unlike any other friend, will wait, 
not only upon the hour, but upon the mood. 
It asks nothing and gives much, when one 
comes in the right way. The volumes stand 
in serried ranks at attention, listening eagerly, 
one may fancy, for the command. 

Is your world a small one, made unendura- 
ble by a thousand petty cares ? Are the heart 
and soul of you cast down by bitter disap- 
pointment? Would you leave it all, if only 
for an hour, and come back with a new point 
of view ? Then open the covers of a book. 

With this gentle comrade, you may journey 
to the very end of the world and even to the 
beginning of civilisation. There is no land 
which you may not visit, from Arctic snows 
to the loftiest peaks of southern mountains. 
Gallant gentlemen will go with you and tell 
you how to appreciate what you see. Further 
still, there are excursions into the boundless 
regions of imagination, where the light of 
dreams has laid its surpassing beauty over all. 

Would you wander in company with sol- 


8 4 


Ube Master's tittolin 


diers of Fortune, and share their wonderful 
adventures? Would you live in the time 
of the Crusades and undertake a pilgrimage in 
the name of the Cross? Would you smell 
the smoke of battle, hear the ring of steel, the 
rattle of musketry, and see the colours break 
into deathly beauty well in advance of the 
charge ? Would you have for your friends a 
great company of noble men and women who 
have wrought and suffered and triumphed in 
the end ? Would you find new courage, 
stronger faith, and serene hope ? Then open 
the covers of a book, and presto — change ! 

“Iris,” called Aunt Peace, “you're surely 
not going without your hat ?” 

“Of course not.” The colour that came 
and went in her damask cheeks was very like 
that in her pink dimity gown. She put on 
her white hat, the brim drooping beneath its 
burden of pink roses, and drew her gloves 
reluctantly over her dimpled hands. 

“Iris, dear, your sunshade! ” 

“Yes, Aunt Peace.” She came back, a lit- 
tle unwillingly, but tan was a personal dis- 
grace in East Lancaster. 

Ready at last, she tripped down the path 


B Xettet 


85 


and closed the gate carefully. Mrs. Irving 
waved a friendly hand at her from the upper 
window. “ Bring me a letter! ” she called. 

“I'll try to,” answered Iris, “but I can't 
promise.” 

She lifted her gown a little, to keep it clear 
of burr and brier, and one saw the smooth, 
black silk stocking, chastely embroidered at 
the ankle, as one suspected, by the hand of 
the wearer, and the dainty, high-heeled shoes. 
The sunshade waved back and forth coquet- 
tishly. It seemed to be an airy ornament, 
rather than an article of utility. 

Half-way down the street, she met Doctor 
Brinkerhoff. “Good morning, little lady,” 
he said, with a smile. 

“Good morning, sir,” replied Iris, with a 
quaint courtesy. “ I trust you are well ? ” 

“My health is uniformly good,” he re- 
turned, primly. “You must remember that 
I have my own drugs and potions always at 
hand.” He made careful inquiries as to 
the physical and mental well-being of each 
member of the family, sent kindly saluta- 
tions to all, made a low bow to Iris, and 
went on. 

“ A very pleasant gentleman,” she said to 


86 


TEbe /toaster's IDioUn 


herself. “What a pity that he has no social 
position! ” 

She loitered at the bridge, hanging over 
the railing, and looked down into the sunny 
depths of the little stream. All through the 
sweet Summer, the brook sang cheerily, by 
night and by day. It began in a cool, crystal 
pool, far up among the hills, and wandered 
over mossy reaches and pebbly ways, sing- 
ing meanwhile of all the fragrant woodland 
through which it came. Hidden springs in 
subterranean caverns, caught by the laughing 
melody, went out to meet it and then fol- 
lowed, as the children followed the Pied 
Piper of old. Great with its gathered waters, 
it still sang as it rippled onward to its destiny, 
dreaming, perchance, of the time when its 
liquid music, lost at last, should be merged 
into the vast symphony of the sea. 

Lynn came down the hill, swinging his 
violin case, and Iris, a little consciously, went 
on to the post-office. 

Standing on tiptoe, she peered into the 
letter box, and then her heart gave a little 
leap, for there were two, yes three letters 
there. 

“ Wait a moment,” called the grizzled vet- 


B Xetter 


87 


eran who served as postmaster. 44 I've finally 
got something fer ye 1 Here ! Miss Peace Field, 
Mrs. Margaret Irving, and Miss Iris Temple.” 

“Oh-hl” whispered Iris, in awe, 44 a letter 
for me?” 

44 Tain’t fer nobody else, I reckon,” laughed 
the old man. 44 Anyhow, it ’s got your name 
on it.” 

She went out, half dazed. In all her life 
she had had but three letters; two from hei 
mother, which she still kept, and one from 
Santa Claus. The good saint had left his 
communication in the little maid’s stocking 
one Christmas eve, and it was more than a 
year before Iris observed that Aunt Peace and 
Santa Claus wrote precisely the same hand. 

44 For me,” she said to herself, 44 all for 
me!” 

It never entered her pretty head to open it. 
The handwriting was unfamiliar and the post* 
mark was blurred, but it seemed to have 
come from the next town. The whole thing 
was very disturbing, but Aunt Peace would 
know. 

Then Iris stopped suddenly in the path. 
It might be wicked, but, after all, why should 
Aunt Peace know ? Why not have just one 


88 


Ube Master's Violin 


little secret, all to herself? The daring of it 
almost took her breath away, but in that 
single, dramatic instant, she decided. 

No one was in sight, and Iris, in the shadow 
of a maple, tucked the letter safely away in 
her stocking, fancying she heard it rustle as 
she walked. 

In her brief experience of life there had 
seldom been so long a day. The hours 
stretched on interminably, and she was never 
alone. She did not forget the letter for a 
moment, and when she had once become 
accustomed to the wonder of it, she was 
conscious of a growing, very feminine curi- 
osity. 

A little after ten, when she had dutifully 
kissed Aunt Peace good night, she stood 
alone in her room with her heart wildly beat- 
ing. The door was locked and there was 
not even the sound of a footstep. Surely, 
she might read it now ! 

By the flickering light of her candle, she 
cut it at the end with the scissors, drew out 
the letter, and unfolded it with trembling 
hands. 

“ Iris, Daughter of the Marshes,” it began, 
“ how shall I tell you of your loveliness ? 


B Xetter 


g 9 


You are straight and slender as the rushes, 
dainty as a moonbeam, and sweet as a rose 
of June. Your dimpled hands make me think 
of white flowers, and the flush on your cheeks 
is like that on the petals of the first anemone. 

“ Midnight itself sleeps in your hair, fra- 
grant as the Summer dusk, and your laugh- 
ing lips have the colour of a scarlet geranium, 
but your eyes, my dear one, how shall l 
write to you of your eyes ? They have the 
beauty of calm, wide waters, when sunset 
has given them that wonderful blue; they are 
eyes a man might look into during his last 
hour in the world, and think his whole life 
well spent because of them. 

“Do you think me bold — your unknown 
lover? I am bold because my heart makes 
me so, and because there is no other way. 
I dare' not ask for an answer, nor tell you my 
name, but if you are displeased, I am sure 
I have a way of finding it out. Perhaps you 
wonder where I have seen you, so 1 will tell 
you this. I have seen you, more than once, 
going to the post-office in East Lancaster, 
and, no matter how, 1 have learned your 
name. 

“Some day, perhaps, I shall see you face 


90 


Ube taster's Violin 


to face. Some day you may give me your 
gracious permission to tell you all that is in 
my heart. Until then, remember that 1 am 
your knight, that you are my lady, and that I 
love you, Iris, love youl ” 

Her eyes were as luminous as the stars 
that shone upon the breast of night. If the 
heavens had suddenly opened, she could not 
have been more surprised. Her first love 
letterl At a single bound she had gained her 
place beside those fair ladies of romance, who 
peopled her maiden dreams. From to-night, 
she stood apart; no longer a child, but a 
woman worshipped afar, by some gallant 
lover who feared to sign his name. 

She put out the candle, for the moonlight 
filled the room, and pattered across the pol- 
ished floor, in her bare feet, to her little white 
bed, the letter in her hand. 

“ Rose bloom fell on her hands, together prest. 

And on her silver cross soft amethyst.” 

The hours went by and still Iris was awake, 
the mute paper crushed close against her 
breast “ I wonder,” she murmured, her 
crimson face hidden in the pillow, “I won- 
der who he can be 1 ” 


VII 

jfrien&s 

T HE Doctor’s modest establishment con- 
sisted of two rooms over the post-office. 
Here his shingle swung idly in the Summer 
breeze or resisted the onslaughts of the Win- 
ter storms. The infrequent patient seldom 
met anyone else in the office, but in case 
there should be two at once, a dusty chair 
had been placed in the hall. 

Both rooms were kept scrupulously clean 
by the wife of the postmaster, who lived on 
the same floor, but the bottles ranged in or- 
derly rows upon the shelves were left severely 
alone, because the ministering influence lived 
in hourly dread of poison. 

Here the family physician of East Lancaster 
lived out his monotonous existence. When 
he had first taken up his abode there, he had 
set up his household gods upon the hill, in 
company with his countrymen. He soon 


92 


TLbc /toaster's Violin 


found, however, that his practice was con- 
fined to the hill, and that, for all he might 
know to the contrary, East Lancaster was 
unaware of his existence. 

It was the postmaster who first set him 
right. “If you’re a-layin’ out to heal them 
as has the money to pay for it,” he had said, 
“you ’ll have to move. This yere brook, 
what seems so innocent-like, is the chalk 
mark that partitions the sheep off from the 
goats. You ’ll find it so in every place. 
Sometimes it ’s water, sometimes it ’s a car 
track, and sometimes a deepo, but it ’s al- 
ways there, though more ’n likely there ain’t 
no real line exceptin’ the one what ’s drawn 
in folks’ fool heads. I reckon, bein’ as you ’re 
a doctor, you ’re familiar with that line down 
the middle of human’s brains. Well, this 
yere brook is practically the same thing, con- 
siderin’ East and West Lancaster for a minute 
as brains, the which is a high compliment to 
both.” 

So, at the earliest possible moment, the 
Doctor had cast in his fortunes with the 
“quality.” East Lancaster affected refined 
astonishment at first, but when the resident 
physician, who had long enjoyed the deep 


jfr ienfcs 


93 


respect of the community, had been gathered 
to his fathers, Doctor Brinkerhoff became the 
last resort. His skill was universally admit- 
ted, but no one went to his office, for fear 
of meeting undesirable strangers. It was 
thought to be in better taste to pay the double 
fee and have the Doctor call, even for such 
slight ailments as boils and cut fingers. 

The man was mentally broad enough to be 
amused at the eccentricities of East Lancaster, 
though his keen old eyes did not fail to dis- 
cern that he was merely tolerated where he 
had hoped to find friends. Within the nar- 
row confines of his establishment, he culti- 
vated a serene and comfortable philosophy. 
To suit himself to his environment when that 
environment was out of his power to change, 
to seek for the good in everything and reso- 
lutely refuse to be affected by the bad, to 
believe steadfastly in the law of Compensa- 
tion — this was Doctor Brinkerhoff s creed. 

On Wednesday and Saturday evenings, he 
was received as an equal by two of the aristo- 
cratic families. On Sunday mornings, he 
never failed to attend church. Before the last 
notes of the bell died away, he was always in 
his place. After the service, he hurried away, 


94 


Zbc /toaster's Violin 


making courtly acknowledgments on every 
side to the formal greetings. 

Sunday afternoons, precisely at half-past 
four, he went up the hill to Herr Kaufmann’s 
and spent the evening. This weekly visit 
was the leaven of Fraulein Fredrika’s humdrum 
life. There was a sort of romance about it 
which glorified the commonplace and she 
looked forward to it with repressed excite- 
ment Poor Fraulein Fredrika! Perhaps she, 
too, had her dreams. 

In many respects the two men were kin- 
dred. Their conversations were frequently 
perfunctory, but lacked no whit of sustaining 
grace for that. Talk, after all, is pathetically 
cheap. Where one cannot understand with- 
out words, no amount of explanation will 
make things clear. Across impassable deeps, 
like lofty peaks of widely parted ranges, soul 
greets soul. Separated forever by the limita- 
tions of our clay, we live and die absolutely 
alone. Even Love, the magician, who for 
dazzling moments gives new sight and bound- 
less revelation, cannot always work his 
charm. A third of our lives is spent in sleep, 
and who shall say what proportion of the 
rest is endured in planetary isolation ? 


Jfrien&s 


95 


June came through the open windows of 
the house upon the brink of the cliff and the 
Master dozed in his chair. The height was 
glaring, because there were no trees. The 
spirit of German progress had cut down every 
one of the lofty pines and maples, save 
at the edges of the settlement, where prim- 
eval woods, sloping down to the valley, still 
flourished. 

Fraulein Fredrika sat with her face reso- 
lutely turned to the west. It was Sunday 
and almost half-past four, but she would not 
iook for the expected guest. She preferred to 
concentrate her mind upon something else, 
and when the rusty bell-wire creaked, experi- 
ence all the emotion of a delightful surprise. 

At the appointed hour, he came, and the 
colour of dead rose petals bloomed on the 
Fraulein’s withered face. “Herr Doctor," 
she said, “ it is most kind. Mine brudder will 
be pleased.” 

“ Wake up 1 " cried the Doctor, with a 
hearty laugh, as he strode into the room. 
4 You can’t sleep all the time ! ” 

“So," said the Master, with an understand- 
ing smile, as he straightened himself and 
rubbed his eyes, “it is you ! " 


96 


XTbe fl&aster's Violin 


FrSulein Fredrika sat in the corner and 
watched the two whom she loved best in 
all the world. No one was so wise as her 
Franz, unless it might be the Herr Doctor, to 
whom all the mysteries of life and death 
were as an open book. 

“To me,” said the Doctor, once, “much 
has been given to see. My Father has gra- 
ciously allowed me to help Him. I am first to 
welcome the soul that arrives from Him, and 1 
am last to say farewell to those He takes back. 
What wonder if, now and then, I presume to 
send Him a message of my faith and my belief?” 

The Master’s idea of satisfying companion- 
ship was not a flow of uninterrupted talk, 
marred by much levity. He merely asked that 
his friend should be near at hand, that he 
might communicate with him when he chose. 
When he had a thought which seemed 
worthy of dignified inspection, he would 
offer it, but not before. 

On this particular afternoon, Lynn was ex- 
ceedingly restless. Like many other men, 
to whom the thing is impossible, he vaguely- 
feared feminisation. The variety of soft in- 
fluences continually about him had a subtle, 
enervating effect. 


jfrienfcs 


97 


Iris was reading, his mother was writing 
letters, and Aunt Peace was endeavouring to 
entertain him with reminiscences of her early 
youth. When life lies fair in the distance, 
with the rosy hues of anticipation transfigur- 
ing its rugged steeps and yawning chasms, 
we are young, though our years may number 
threescore and ten. On that first day when 
we look back, either happily or with remorse, 
to the stony ways over which we have travel- 
led, losing concern for that part of the journey 
which is yet to come, we have grown old. 

“That is very interesting,” said Lynn, 
when Aunt Peace had finished her description 
of the first school she attended. “ I think I ’ll 
go out for a walk now, if you don’t mind. 
Will you tell mother, please, when she comes 
down ?” 

He went off at a rapid pace and made a 
long, circling tour of East Lancaster, ending at 
the bridge, where he, too, leaned over and 
looked into the sunny depths of the stream. 
Doctor Brinkerhoff’s sign, waving in the wind, 
gave him an idea. Accidentally, he had hit 
upon his need; he hungered for the compan- 
ionship of his kind. 

But Doctor BrinkerhofT was not at home, 


98 


Zhc dDaster’s WtoUn 


and the deserted corridors echoed strangely 
beneath his tread. He walked the length of 
the long hall a few times, because there 
seemed nothing else to do, and the Doctor’s 
cat, locked in the office, mewed piteously. 

“Poor pussy!” said Lynn, consolingly, “I 
wish I could let you out, but I can’t.” 

Up the hill he went, his nameless irritation 
already sensibly decreased. After all, it was 
good to be alive — to breathe the free air, feel 
the warm sun upon his cheek and the springy 
turf beneath his feet. 

“Someone is coming,” announced Fraulein 
Fredrika. “I think it will be the Herr 
Irving.” 

“ Herr Irving,” repeated the Master. 
“Mine pupil? It is not the day for his 
lesson.” 

“Perhaps someone is ill,” suggested the 
Doctor. 

But, as it happened, Lynn had no errand 
save that of pure friendliness. His buoyant 
spirits immediately gave a freshness to the 
time-worn themes of conversation, and they 
talked until sunset. 

“It is good to have friends,” observed the 
Master. “In one’s wide acquaintance every 


JFrten&s 


99 


person has his own place. You lose one 
friend, perhaps, and you think, * Well, I can 
get along without him/ but it is not so. We 
have as many sides as we know people, and 
each acquaintance sees a different one, which 
is often only a reflection' of himself. 

“This afternoon, we have been speaking of 
Truth, and how it is that things entirely oppo- 
site each other can both be true. The Herr 
Doctor says it is because Truth has many 
sides, but I say no. Truth is one clear white 
light and we are sun-glasses with many 
corners. Prisms, I think you say. If the 
light strikes a sharp edge, it breaks into many 
colours. To one of us everything will be 
purple, to another red, and to yet one more it 
will be all blue. If we have many edges, we 
see many colours. It is only the person who 
is in tune, who lets the light pass with no in- 
terruption, who sees all things in one har- 
mony, and Truth as it is.” 

“Yes,” said the Doctor, “that is all very 
true. When we oppose our personal opin- 
ion to the thing as it is, and have our minds 
set upon what should be, according to our 
ideas, it makes an edge. I think it is the 
finest art of living to see things as they are 


IOO 


Ube /©aster's Violin 


and make the best of them. There is so little 
that we can change! If the colours break 
over us, it is the fault of our sharp edges and 
not of the light.” 

“We are getting very serious,” observed 
Lynn. “ For my part, I take each day just as 
it comes.” 

“One day,” repeated the Master. “How 
many possible things there are in it! What 
was it the poet said of Herr Columbus ? Yes, 
I have it now. ‘ One day with life and hope 
and heart is time enough to find a world/ ” 

“That is the beauty of it,” put in the Doc- 
tor. “ One day is surely enough. An old 
lady who had fallen and hurt herself badly 
said to me once: ‘Doctor, how long must I 
lie here ? ’ ‘ Have patience, my dear madam/ 

said I. ‘ You have only one day at a time to 
live. Get all the content you can out of it, 
and let the rest wait, like a bud, till the sun of 
to-morrow shows you the rose/ ” 

“ Did she get well ? ” asked Lynn. 

“ Of course — why not ?” 

“His sick ones always get well,” said 
Fraulein Fredrika, timidly. “ Mine brudder’s 
friend possesses great skill.” 

She was laying the table for the simple 


JFrienbs 


IOI 


Sunday night tea, and Lynn said that he 
must go. 

“No, no,” objected the Master, “you must 
stay.” 

“It would be of a niceness,” the Fraulein 
assured him, very politely. 

“We should enjoy it,” said the Doctor. 

“You are all very kind,” returned Lynn, 
“but they will look for me at home, and I 
must not disappoint them/* 

“Then,” continued the Doctor, “may I 
not hope that you will play for me before 
you go?” 

“Certainly, if I have Herr Kaufmann's 
permission, and if I may borrow one of his 
violins.” 

“Of a surety.” The Master clattered 
down the uncarpeted stairs and returned 
with an instrument of his own make. With- 
out accompaniment, Lynn played, and the 
Doctor nodded his enthusiastic approval. 
Herr Kaufmann looked out of the window 
and paid not the slightest attention to the 
performance. 

“Very fine,” said the Doctor. “We have 
enjoyed it.” 

“1 am glad,” replied Lynn, modestly. 


102 


Ube Master's IDioiin 


Then, flushed with the praise, and his own 
pleasure in his achievement, he turned to the 
Master. “ How am I getting on ? ” he asked, 
anxiously. “ Don’t you think I am improv- 
ing?” 

‘‘Yes,” returned the Master, dryly; “by 
next week you will be one Paganini.” 

Stung by the sarcasm, Lynn went home, 
and after tea the group resolved itself into its 
original elements. Herr Kaufmann and the 
Doctor sat in their respective easy-chairs, con- 
versing with each other by means of silences, 
with here and there a word of comment, and 
Fraulein Fredrika was in the corner, silent, 
too, and yet overcome with admiration. 

“That boy,” said the Doctor, at length, 
“ he has genius.” 

The crescent moon gleamed faintly against 
the sunset, and a wayworn robin, with slow- 
beating wings, circled toward his nest in one 
of the maples on the other side of the valley. 
The fragrant dusk sheltered the little house, 
which all day had borne the heat of the 
sun. 

“Possibly,” said the Master, “but no heart, 
no feeling. He is all technique.” 

There was another long pause. “ His 


ifrien&s 


103 


mother, ” observed the Doctor, “do you 
know her ?” 

“No. I meet no women but mine sister.” 

“ She is a lovely lady. 5 ’ 

“So?” 

It was evident that the Master had no in- 
terest in Margaret Irving, but the Doctor still 
brooded upon the vision. She was different 
from anyone else in East Lancaster, and he 
admired her very much. 

“That boy,” said the Doctor, again, “ he 
has her eyes.” 

“ Whose?” 

“His mother’s.” 

“So?” 

The interval lengthened into an hour, and 
presently the kitchen clock struck ten. “ I 
shall go now,” remarked the Doctor, rising. 

“Not yet,” said the Master. “ Cornel ” 

They went downstairs together, into the 
shop. It had happened before, though rarely, 
and the Doctor suspected that he was about 
to receive the greatest possible kindness from 
his friend’s hands. Herr Kaufmann disap- 
peared into his bedroom and was gone a long 
time. 

The room was dark, and the Doctor did not 


104 


XTbe Master's IDfoIfn 


dare to move for fear of stepping upon some 
of the wood destined for violins. A cricket 
in the corner sang cheerily and ceased sud- 
denly in the middle of a chirp when the Mas- 
ter came back with a lighted candle. 

“One moment, Herr Doctor.” 

He whisked off again and presently re- 
turned, holding under his arm something that 
was wrapped in many pieces of ragged silk. 
One by one these were removed, and at last 
the treasure was revealed. 

He held it off at arm’s length, where the 
light might shine upon its beauty, and well 
out of reach of a random touch. The Doc- 
tor said the expected thing, but it fell upon 
deaf ears. The Master’s fine face was alight 
with more than earthly joy, and he stroked 
the brown breasts lovingly. 

“Mine Cremona 1” he breathed. “Mine — 
all mine!” 


VIII 

a J8it of tmman Drlftwoob 

“F) RESENT company excepted,” remarked 

1 Lynn, “this village is full of fossils.” 

“ At what age does one get to be a * fossil/ ” 
asked Aunt Peace, her eyes twinkling. 
“ Seventy-five ? ” 

“That isn’t fair,” Lynn answered, resent- 
fully. “You’re younger than any of us, 
Aunt Peace, — you ’re seventy-five years 
young.” 

“So I am,” she responded, good humour- 
edly. She was upon excellent terms with 
this tall, straight young fellow who had 
brought new life into her household. A 
March wind, suddenly sweeping through her 
rooms, would have had much the same effect 

“ Am I a fossil ?” asked Margaret, who had 
overheard the conversation. 

“You ’re nothing but a kid, mother. 
You ’ve never grown up. I can do what I 


io6 


Ubc Master’s UHoUn 


please with you.” He picked her up, bodily, 
and carried her, flushed and protesting, to 
her favourite chair, and dumped her into it. 
“ Aunt Peace, is there any place in the house 
where you might care to go ? ” 

“ Thank you, no. I ’ll stay where I am, if I 
may. I ’m very comfortable.” 

Lynn paced back and forth with a heavy 
tread which resounded upon the polished 
floor. Iris happened to be passing the 
door and looked in, anxiously, for signs of 
damage. 

“Iris,” laughed Miss Field, “what a little 
old maid you are! You remind me of that 
story we read together.” 

“Which story, Aunt Peace?” 

“The one in which the over-neat woman 
married a careless man to reform him. She 
used to follow him around with a brush and 
dustpan and sweep up after him.” 

“That would make him nice and comfort- 
able,” observed Lynn. “What became of 
the man ?” 

“He was sent to the asylum.” 

“ And the woman ?” asked Margaret 

“She died of a broken heart.” 

“I think I’d be in the asylum too,” said 


B JSit of t>uman Drtftwoob 107 


Lynn. “I do not desire to be swept up 
after.” 

“Nobody desires to sweep up after you,” 
retorted Iris, “but it has to be done. Other- 
wise the house would be uninhabitable.” 

“East Lancaster,” continued Lynn, irrele- 
vantly, “ is the abode of mummies and fossils. 
The city seal is a broom — at least it should be. 
I was never in such a clean place in my life. 
The exhibits themselves look as though 
they’d been freshly dusted. Dirt is whole- 
some — did n't you ever hear that ? How the 
population has lived to its present advanced 
age, is beyond me.” 

“We have never really lived,” returned 
Iris, with a touch of sarcasm, “ until recently. 
Before you came, we existed. Now East 
Lancaster lives.” 

“ Who ’s the pious party in brown silk 
with the irregular dome on her roof ? ” asked 
Lynn. 

“The minister's second wife,” answered 
Aunt Peace, instantly gathering a personality 
from the brief description. 

“So, as Herr Kaufmann says. Might one 
inquire about the jewel she wears?” 

“ It 's just a pin,” said Iris. 


io8 


Ube toaster's Violin 


44 It looks more like a glass case. In some- 
way, it reminds me of a museum/* 

44 It has some of her first husband’s hair 
in it,” explained Iris. 

“Jerusalem!” cried Lynn, “That’s the 
limit 1 Fancy the feelings of the happy bride- 
groom whose wife wears a jewel made out of 
her first husband’s fur! Not for me! When 
I take the fatal step, it won’t be a widow.” 

“That,” remarked Margaret, calmly, “is as 
it may be. We have the reputation of being 
a bad lot.” 

Lynn flushed, patted his mother’s hand 
awkwardly, and hastily beat a retreat. They 
heard him in the room overhead, walking 
back and forth, and practising feverishly. 

“Margaret,” asked Miss Field, suddenly, 
44 what are you going to make of that boy ?” 

44 A good man first, ” she answered. 44 After 
that, what God pleases.” 

By a swift change, the conversation had 
become serious, and, always quick at perceiv- 
ing hidden currents, Iris felt herself in the 
way. Making an excuse, she left them. 

For some time each was occupied with her 
own thoughts. 44 Margaret,” said Miss Field, 
again, then hesitated. 


B 33 tt of t)uman ©dftwoob 109 


“Yes, Aunt Peace — what is it ?” 

“My little girl. I have been thinking — 
after I am gone, you know.” 

“Don’t talk so, dear Aunt Peace. We 
shall have you with us for a long time yet.” 

“ I hope so,” returned the old lady, brightly, 
“but I am not endowed with immortality — 
at least not here, — and I have already lived 
more than my allotted threescore and ten. 
My problem is not a new one — I have had it 
on my mind for years, — and when you came 
I thought that perhaps you had come to help 
me solve it.” 

“And so I have, if I can.” 

“ My little girl,” said Aunt Peace, — and the 
words were a caress, — “she has given to me 
infinitely more than I have given to her. I 
have never ceased to bless the day 1 found 
her.” 

Between these two there were no ques- 
tions, save the ordinary, meaningless ones 
which make so large a part of conversation. 
The deeps were silently passed by; only the 
shallows were touched. 

“You have the right to know,” Miss Field 
continued. “ Iris is twenty now, or possibly 
twenty-one. She has never known when 


no 


TZbc toaster's Violin 


her birthday came, and so we celebrate it on 
the anniversary of the day I found her. 

“I was driving through the country, fif- 
teen or twenty miles from East Lancaster. 
L— I was with Doctor Brinkerhoff,” she went 
on, unwillingly. “ He had asked me to go and 
see a patient of his, in whom, from what he 
had told me, I had learned to take great 
interest. Doctor Brinkerhoff,” she said, stur- 
dily, “is a gentleman, though he has no 
social position.” 

“Yes,” replied Margaret, seeing that an 
answer was expected, “he is a charming 
gentleman.” 

“It was a warm Summer day, and on our 
way back we came upon a dozen or more 
ragged children, playing in the road. They 
refused to let us pass, and we could not run 
over them. A dilapidated farmhouse stood 
close by, but no one was in sight. 

“ ‘ Please hold the lines,' said the Doctor. 

* 1 will get out and lead the horse past this most 
unnecessary obstruction.' When he got out, 
the children began to throw stones at the 
horse. It was a young animal, and it started 
so violently that I was almost thrown from 
my seat One child, a girl of ten, climbed 


a Bit of f)uman 2 >rtf twoob 1 1 1 


into the buggy and shrieked to the rest : 
* I ’ll hold the lines — get more stones 1 * 

“I was frightened and furiously angry, but 
I could do nothing, for I had only one hand 
free. 1 tried to make the child sit down, and 
she struck at me. Her torn sleeve fell back, 
and I saw that her arm was bruised, as if 
with heavy blows. 

'‘Meanwhile the Doctor had led the horse 
a little way ahead, and had come back. The 
whole tribe was behind us, yelling like wild 
Indians, and we were in the midst of a rain 
of stones. Doctor Brinkerhoff got in and 
started the horse at full speed. 

“‘We’ll put her down,’ he said, ‘a little 
farther on. She can walk back.* 

“She was quiet, and her head was down, 
but I had one look from her eyes that haunts 
me yet. She hated everybody — you could 
see that, — and yet there was a sort of dumb 
helplessness about it that made my heart 
ache. 

“She got out, obediently, when we told 
her to, and stood by the roadside, watching 
us. ‘Doctor,’ I said, ‘that child is not like 
the others, and she has been badly used. I 
want her — I want to take her home with me.’ 


XTbe toaster's tDfolfn 


1 12 


“ * Bless your kind heart, dear lady/ he 
replied, laughing, and we were almost at 
home before 1 convinced him that 1 was in 
earnest. He would not let me go there again, 
but the very next day, he went, late in the 
afternoon, and brought her to me after dark, 
so that no one might see. East Lancaster has 
always made the most of every morsel of 
gossip. 

“ The poor little soul was hungry, fright- 
ened, and oh, so dirty I 1 gave her a bath, 
cut off her hair, which was matted close to 
her head, fed her, and put her into a clean 
bed. The bruises on her body would have 
brought tears from a stone. I sat by her until 
she was asleep, and then went down to inter- 
view the Doctor, who was reading in the 
library. 

“He said that the people who had her 
were more than glad to get rid of her, and 
hoped that they might never see her again. 
Nothing had been paid toward her support 
for a long time, and they considered them- 
selves victimised. 

“Of course I put detectives at work upon 
the case and soon found out all there was to 
know. She was the daughter or a play-act- 


B 33 tt of tmman DrtftwooO 113 


ress, whose stage name was Iris Temple. 
Her husband deserted her a few months after 
their marriage, and when the child was born, 
she was absolutely destitute. Finally, she 
found work, but she could not take the child 
with her, and so Iris does not remember her 
mother at all. For six years she paid these 
people a small sum for the care of the child, 
then remittances ceased, and abuse began. 
We learned that she had died in a hospital, 
but there was no trace of the father. 

“ There was no one to dispute my title, so 
1 at once made it legal. Shortly afterward, 
she had a long, terrible fever, and oh, Margaret, 
the things that poor child said in her delirium! 
Doctor Brinkerhoff was here night and day, 
and his skill saved her, but when she came 
out of it she was a pitiful little ghost. Merci- 
fully, she had forgotten a great deal, but even 
now some of the horror comes back to her 
occasionally. She knows everything, except 
that her mother was a play-actress. I would 
not want her to know that. 

“ For a while,” Aunt Peace went on, “ we 
both had a very hard time. She was actually 
depraved. But I believed in the good that 
was hidden in her somewhere — there is good 


Ube /Easter's DioUn 


1 14 

in all of us if we can only find it, — and little 
by little she learned to love me. Through it 
all, I had Doctor Brinkerhoffs sympathetic 
assistance. He came every week, advised 
me, counselled with me, helped me, and even 
faced the gossips. All that East Lancaster 
knows is the simple fact that 1 found a child 
who attracted me, discovered that her parents 
were dead, and adopted her. There was a 
great deal of excitement at first, but it died 
down. Most things die down, my dear, if we 
give them time/' 

“ Dear Aunt Peace,” said Margaret, softly, 
“you found a bit of human driftwood, and 
with your love and your patience made it 
into a beautiful woman.” 

The old face softened, and the serene eyes 
grew dim. “ Whenever I think that my life 
has been in vain; when it seems empty, 

* purposeless, and bare, I look at my little girl, 
remember what she was, and find content. I 
think that a great deal will be forgiven me, 
because 1 have done well with her.” 

44 1 am so glad you told me,” continued 
Margaret, after a little. 

“Her future has sorely troubled me. Of 
course 1 can make her comfortable, but money 


B JStt of fcmman Driftwood 1 15 


is not everything. 1 dread to have her go 

away from East Lancaster, and yet ” 

“She never need go,” interrupted Mar- 
garet. “ If, as you say, the house comes to 
me, there is no reason why she should. I 
would be so glad to have her with me! ” 
“Thank you, my dear! It was what I 
wanted, but I did not like to ask. Now my 
mind will be at rest.” 

“ It is little enough to do for you, leaving 
her out of the question. She might be a 
great deal less lovely than she is, and yet it 
would be a pleasure to do it for you.” 

“She will repay you, I am sure,” said 
Aunt Peace. “Of course Lynn will marry 
sometime,” — here the mother’s heart stopped 
beating for an instant and went on unevenly, 
— “so you will be left alone. You cannot 
expect to keep him in a place like East Lan- 
caster. He is — how old ? ” 

“Twenty-three.” 

“ Then, in a few years more, he will leave 
you.” Aunt Peace was merely meditating 
aloud as she looked out of the window, and 
had no idea that she was hurting her listener. 
“Perhaps, after all, Iris will be my best 
bequest to you.” 


Ii6 


Ube /toaster's IDtoltn 


44 Iris may marry,” suggested Mrs. Irving, 
trying to smile. 

44 Iris,” repeated Aunt Peace, 44 no indeedl 
I have made her an old-fashioned spinster like 
myself. She has never thought of such things, 
and never will I ” 

(At the moment, Miss Temple was reading 
an anonymous letter, much worn, but, though 
walls have ears, they are happily blind, and 
Aunt Peace did not realise that she was no- 
where near the mark.) 

44 Marriage is a negative relation,” continued 
Miss Field, with an air of knowledge. 
44 People undertake it from an unpardonable 
individual curiosity. They see it all around 
them, and yet they rush in, blindly trusting 
that their own venture will turn out differently 
from every other. Someone once said that it 
was like a crowded church — those outside 
were endeavouring to get in, and those in- 
side were making violent efforts to get out. 
Personally, I have had the better part of it. I 
have my home, my independence, and I have 
brought up a child. Moreover, I have not 
been annoyed with a husband.” 

44 Suppose one falls in love,” said Margaret, 
timidly. 


a JSit of tiuman Bdftwoob 117 


“Love!” exclaimed Aunt Peace. “Stuff 
and nonsense!” She rose majestically, and 
went out with her head high and the step of 
a grenadier. 

Left to herself, Margaret mentally reviewed 
their conversation, passing resolutely over the 
hurt that Aunt Peace had unconsciously made 
in her heart. Never before had it occurred to 
her that Lynn might marry. “He can’t,” 
she whispered; “why, he’s nothing but a 
child.” 

She turned her thoughts to Iris and Aunt 
Peace. The homeless little savage had grown 
into a charming woman, under the patient 
care of the only mother she had ever known. 
If Aunt Peace should die — and if Lynn should 
marry, — she did not phrase the thought, but 
she was very conscious of its existence, — she 
and Iris might make a little home for them- 
selves in the old house. Two men, even the 
best of friends, can never make a home, but 
two women, on speaking terms, may do so. 

“If Lynn should marry!” Insistently, the 
torment of it returned. If he should fall in 
love, who was she to put a barrier in his 
path ? His mother, whose heart had been 
hungry all these years, should she keep him 


Ii8 


Ube /©aster’s IDioIfn 


back by so much as a word? Then, all at 
once, she knew that it was her own warped 
life which demanded it by way of compen- 
sation. 

“No/' she breathed, with her lips white, 
“1 will never stand in his way. Because 1 
have suffered, he shall not.” Then she 
laughed hysterically. “ How ridiculous I 
am!” she said to herself. “Why, he is no- 
thing but a child!” 

The mood passed, and the woman’s soul 
began to dwell upon its precious memories. 
Mnemosyne, that guardian angel, forever sep- 
arates the wheat from the chaff, the joy from 
the pain. At the touch of her hallowed fin- 
gers, the heartache takes on a certain calm- 
ness, which is none the less beautiful because 
it is wholly made of tears. 

Lynn’s violin was silent now, and softly, 
from the back of the house, the girl’s full 
contralto swelled into a song. 

“ The hours I spent with thee, Dear Heart, 

Are as a string of pearls to me; 

1 count them over, every one apart — 

My rosary! My rosary! ” 

Iris sang because she was happy, but, none 
the less, the deep, vibrant voice had an under- 


a Bit of Ibuman Driftwood 119 


tone of sadness — a world-old sorrow which, 
by right of inheritance, was hers. 

Margaret’s thoughts went back to her own 
girlhood, when she was no older than the 
unseen singer. Love’s cup had been at her 
lips, then, and had been dashed away by a 
relentless hand. 

“ O memories that bless and bum! 

O barren pain and bitter loss! 

I kiss each bead and strive at last to learn 
To kiss the cross — Sweetheart! To kiss the cross! ” 

“ ‘To kiss the cross,*” muttered Margaret, 
then the tears came in a blinding flood. 
“Mother! Mother!” she sobbed. “How 
could you!** 

Insensibly, something was changed, and, 
for the first time, the woman who had gone 
to her grave unforgiven, seemed not entirely 
beyond the reach of pardon. 


IX 

IRoeemar? anb flDignonette 

u q WEET Lady of my Dreams, it cannot 

O be that you are displeased. If you 
were, I should know, but do not ask me 
howl 

“Day by day, my eyes long for the sight 
of you; night by night my heart remembers 
you, for that Inner vision does not vanish 
with the sun. You have unconsciously given 
me a priceless gift, for wherever I may go, I 
take you with me — all the grace of you, all 
the beauty, and all the softness. I have only 
to close my eyes and then I see. 

“ But do not think I keep your image al- 
ways before me, for it is not so. In the 
work-a-day world, you have no place. You 
belong, rather, to those fair lands of fancy 
which lie just beyond the borders of this 
world and are, or so I think, very near the 
gleaming gates of Heaven. 


■Rosemarg ant> /iMgnonette 121 


“ I am not always at work, but sometimes, 
even when 1 am, you come tripping before 
my eyes, so dainty, so wholly exquisite, that 
I forget what I am doing, and then I must 
put you aside. But when the day is done, 
and the light of it shows only through the 
pinholes pricked in the curtain of night, then 
I can think of you, as radiant, as beautiful, 
and as far above me as those very stars. 

“All unknowingly, you are the light of my 
day. Whatever darkness might surround me, 
your eyes would make it noon. However 
steep and thorny my path, your hand in mine 
would make it a sunny meadow, swept by 
shadowy wings, where the white and crim- 
son clover bloomed all day. 

“You give me life. You make the birds 
sing more sweetly for me; you make the roses 
more fragrant, the moonlight more like pearl. 
You have glorified the commonplace affairs 
of the day with your enchantment; you have 
put the joy of the gods into the heart of a 
man. 

“Do you wonder that, loving you like this, 
I do not make myself known ? Sweetheart, 
it is because I fear. Already I have more than 
I deserve because you are not displeased with 


122 


Ubc Master’s Moiftt 


me, and since I wrote last I have made pro- 
gress. Would it surprise you very much if I 
told you I knew where you lived ? 

“ I fancy I see you now, with the scarlet 
signals flaming on your cheeks, but, Iris, I 
shall never intrude. It is for you to say 
whether I shall love you in silence and afar, 
or face to face, as I dream that some day 
I may. 

“I want you, dear — I want you with all 
my heart. Of all the women in the world, 
you are the one God meant for me. Other- 
wise, why have I been so strangely led to 
you? 

“Since the first day I saw you, I have knelt 
at your feet. Not for one moment have I 
forgotten you, so flower-like, so womanly, 
so dear. So will it always be, whether I live 
or die. Even to my grave, I shall take the 
memory of you. 

“To-night my memories are few, but my 
dreams — they are so many that I could not 
begin to tell you all. But one of them you 
must know — that some day you wiM let me 
tell you how much 1 love you, and promise 
me that I may shield you all the rest of your 
life. 


m 


IRosemarg ant) /BMgnonette 123 


“The wind should never make you cold, 
the sun should never shine too fiercely upon 
you, the storm should never beat against 
you, if I had my way. 

“ Iris, may I come ? Will you let me teach 
you to care ? So sure am I of my love that I 
ask only for the chance to make you believe. 

“ Put a flower on your gate-post when the 
moon rises to-night, if you are willing that I 
should come. Two flowers, if you are will- 
ing that I should come sometime, but not 
now. Then, when your name-flower em- 
broiders the marshes, you will know who 
loves you — who worships you — who offers 
you his all” 

That night, when the moon swung high in 
the heavens, Iris tiptoed out into the garden, 
with the letter — sentient, alive, and human — 
crushed close against her heart. So conscious 
was she of its presence that she felt it 
blazoned upon her breast for all the world 
to read. 

Dew made the grass damp, but Iris did not 
care. Threads of silver light picked out a 
dainty tracery, and here and there set a dew- 
drop to gleaming like a diamond among 


124 


TLbc fl&aster’s Violin 


unnumbered pearls. Drowsy chirps came from 
the maples above her, where the little birds 
slept in their swaying nests and dreamed of 
wild flights at dawn. A great white moth 
brushed against her face, as softly as thistle- 
down, and she laughed, because it was so 
like a kiss. 

Down toward her corner of the garden she 
went, her dimity skirts daintily uplifted. The 
moonlight touched a cobweb woven across 
the rose-bush, and made a rainbow of it. 

“A little lost rainbow,” thought Iris, “out 
alone in the night, like me! ” 

. She stooped and gathered a sprig of mignon- 
ette, then a bit of rosemary from Mrs. Irving’s 
garden. “She won’t care,” said Iris, to her- 
self; “she used to love somebody, long ago.” 

She bound the two together with a blade 
of grass, and put the merest kiss between 
them, then impulsively wiped it away. But, 
after all, some trace of it must linger, and 
Iris did not intend to give too much, so she 
threw it aside, as it happened, into Lynn’s 
garden. Then she gathered another sprig of 
mignonette, another leaf of rosemary, bound 
them together, and held them very far away, 
out of reach of temptation. 


IRosemars attb Mignonette 125 


Back toward the gate she went, her heart 
wildly beating against the imprisoned letter. 
She hesitated a moment in the shadow of the 
house. The great white moth had followed 
her and again touched her face caressingly. 
Suppose someone should see! 

But there was no one in sight. “Any- 
how,” thought Iris, “if one wishes to come 
out for a moment in the evening, to walk 
as far as the gate, it is all right. If there 
should be rosemary and mignonette on the 
gate-post in the morning, someone who 
was up very early might take it away be- 
fore anybody had seen it. There would be 
no harm in leaving it there overnight, even 
though it is n't quite orderly.” 

She went bravely toward the gate, and the 
moonbeams made an aureole about her hair. 
The light of dreams, shining through the 
mist, transfigured her with silver sheen. The 
earth was exquisitely still, and the sound of 
her little feet upon the gravelled path echoed 
and re-echoed strangely. 

Timidly, Iris put the rosemary and mignon- 
ette, bound together by a single blade of 
grass, first upon one gate-post and then upon 
the other. “Such a little bit!” she mused. 


126 


TZbc toaster's Wolfn 


“One could n’t call it a flower!” Yes, 
mignonette was a flower, but rosemary? 
Surely, no! 

She walked backward, slowly, toward the 
house, and to her conscious eyes, the tell- 
tale message dominated the landscape. The 
moonlight fairly made it shine. Almost at 
the steps, Iris was seized with panic. Then 
her light feet twinkled down the path, and 
frightened, trembling, and ashamed, she thrust 
the nosegay into the open throat of her gown. 

“Oh,” murmured Iris, as she went hastily 
into the house, “what could 1 have been 
thinking of ! ” 


But across the street, in the darkness of the 
shrubbery. Someone smiled. 


X 

In tbe (Barren 

T O-NIGHT,” said Aunt Peace, “we 
will sit in the garden.” 

It was Wednesday, and the rites in the 
house were somewhat relaxed, though Iris, 
from force of habit, polished the tall silver 
candlesticks until they shone like new. Miss 
Field herself made a pan of little cakes, 
sprinkled them with powdered sugar, and 
put them away. She was never lovef'er than 
when at her dainty tasks in her spotless 
kitchen. By some alchemy of the spirit, she 
made the homely duties of the day into 
pleasures — simple ones, perhaps, but none the 
less genuine. 

No one alluded to the fact that Doctor Brink- 
erhoff was coming. “ Of course,” as Iris said 
to Lynn, “we don’t know that he is, but 
since he ’s missed only one Wednesday in ten 
years, we may be pardoned for expecting him.” 


128 


TLbc toaster's IDioUn 


“One might think so,” agreed Lynn, 
laughing. He took keen delight in the regu- 
lar Wednesday evening comedy. 

“We make the little cakes for tea,” contin- 
ued Iris, her eyes dancing. 

“But we never have ’em for tea,” Lynn 
objected, “and I wish you ’d quit talking 
about ’em. It disturbs my peace of mind.” 

“Pig! ” exclaimed Iris. They were alone, 
and her face was dangerously near his. Her 
rosy lips were twitching in a most provoking 
way, and, immediately, there were Conse- 
quences. 

She left the print of four firm fingers upon 
Lynn’s cheek, and he rubbed the injured place 
ruefully. “I don’t see why I should n’t kiss 
you,” he said. 

“ If you have n’t learned yet, I ’ll slap you 
again.” 

“No, you won’t; I ’ll hold your hands next 
time.” 

“There is n’t going to be any ‘next time.' 
The idea! ” 

“Iris! Please don’t go away! Wait a 
minute — I want to talk to you.” 

“It’s too bad it’s so one-sided,” remarked 
Iris, with a sidelong glance. 


In tbe (Sar&en 


129 


“Look here!” 

“Well, 1 'm looking, but so much green — 
the grass — and the shrubbery, you know — 
and all — it ’s hard on my eyes.” 

“We 're cousins, are n’t we?” 

Iris sat down on the bench beside him, 
evidently struck by a new idea. “ I had n't 
thought of it,” she said conversationally. 
“Are we?” 

“ 1 think we are. Mother is Aunt Peace's 
nephew, is n’t she?” 

“Not that anybody knows of. A lady 
nephew is called a niece in East Lancaster.” 

“Oh, well,” replied Lynn, colouring, “you 
know what I mean. Mother is Aunt Peace’s 
niece, is n’t she?” 

“ I hear so. A gentleman for whom I have 
much respect assures me of it.” The wicked 
light in her eyes belied her words, and Lynn 
wished that he had kissed her twice while 
he had the opportunity. 

“ It *s the truth,” he said. “And mother 's 
my mother.” 

“ Really?” 

“ So that makes me Aunt Peace's nephew.” 

“Grand-nephew,” corrected Iris, with 
double meaning. 


130 


X Tbe /©aster’s Violin 


“ Thank you for the compliment. Per- 
haps I ’m a nephew-once-removed. ” 

“I haven't seen any signs of removal,” 
observed Iris, “but I’d love to.” 

“Don’t be so frivolous! If 1 am Aunt 
Peace’s nephew, what relation am I to her 
daughter ? ” 

“ Legal daughter,” Iris suggested. 

“ Legal daughter is just as good as any 
other kind of a daughter. That makes me 
your cousin.” 

“ Legal cousin,” explained Iris, “ but not 
moral.” 

“ It *s all the same, even in East Lan- 
caster. I *m your legal cousin -once -re- 
moved.” 

“ Grand - legal -cousin-once -removed, ” re- 
peated Iris, parrot-like, with her eyes fixed 
upon a distant robin. 

“ That ’s just the same as a plain cousin.” 

“ You ’re plain enough to be a plain cousin,” 
she observed, and the colour deepened upon 
Lynn’s handsome face. 

“ So I ’m going to kiss you again.” 

“You’re not,” she said, with an air of 
finality. She flew into the house and took 
refuge beside Mrs. Irving. 


In tbc (Barren 


131 

“Mother,” cried Lynn, closely following, 
** is n’t Iris my cousin ? ” 

“No, dear; she’s no relation at all.” 

“So now!” exclaimed Iris, in triumph. 
“ Grand-legal-cousin-once-removed, you will 
please make your escape immediately.” 

“ Little witch I” thought Lynn, as he went 
upstairs; “ I’ll see that she does n’t slap me 
next time.” 

“ Iris,” said Mrs. Irving, suddenly, “ you 
are very beautiful.” 

“ Am I, really ? ” For a moment the girl’s 
deep eyes were filled with wonder, and then 
she smiled. “It is because you love me,” 
she said, dropping a tiny kiss upon Margaret’s 
white forehead; “and because I love you, 
I think you are beautiful, too.” 

Alone in her room. Iris studied herself in 
her small mirror. It was just large enough 
to see one’s face in, for Aunt Peace did not 
believe in cultivating vanity — in others. In 
her own room was a long pier-glass, where 
a certain young person stole brief glimpses 
of herself. 

“ I ’ll go in there,” she thought. “ Aunt 
Peace is in the kitchen, and no one will 
know.” 


Ube toaster's Violin 


13c 

She left the door open, that she might hear 
approaching footsteps, and was presently lost 
in contemplation. She turned her head this 
way and that, taking pleasure in the gleam 
of light upon the shining coils of her hair, 
and in the rosy tint of her cheeks. Just 
above the corner of her mouth, there was the 
merest dimple. 

Iris smiled, and then poked an inquiring 
finger into it. “ I did n’t know I had that,” 
she said to herself, in surprise. “ I wonder 
why I could n’t have a glass like this in my 
room ? There ’s one in the attic — I know 
there is, — and oh, how lovely it would be! ” 

“It’s where I kissed you,” said Lynn, from 
the doorway. “ If you ’ll keep still, I ’ll make 
another one for you on the other side. You 
did n’t have that dimple yesterday.” 

“Mr. Irving,” replied Iris, with icy calm- 
ness, “you will kindly let me pass.” 

He stepped aside, half afraid of her in this 
new mood, and she went down the hall to 
her own room. She shut the door with 
unmistakable firmness, and Lynn sighed. 
“Happy mirror! ” he thought. “She’s the 
prettiest thing that ever looked into it.” 

But was she, after all? Since the great 


In tbe Garbcn 


133 


mirror came over-seas, as part of the mar- 
riage portion of a bride, many young eyes 
had sought its shining surface and lingered 
upon the vision of their own loveliness. 
Many a woman, day by day, had watched 
herself grow old, and the mirror had seen 
tears because of it. The portraits in the hall 
and the old mirror had shared many a secret 
together. Happily, neither could betray the 
other’s confidence. 

Iris, meanwhile, was finding such satisfac- 
tion as she might in the smaller glass, and 
meditating upon the desirability of the one 
in the attic. “ I ’ll ask Aunt Peace,” she 
thought, and knew, instantly, that she 
would n’t ask Aunt Peace for worlds. 

“I’m vain,” she said to herself, reprov- 
ingly; “I’m a vain little thing, and I won’t 
look in the mirror any more, so there! ” 

She reviewed her humdrum round of daily 
duties with increasing pity for herself. Then, 
she had had only the books and the people 
who moved across their eloquent pages, but 
now? Surely, Cupid had come to East 
Lancaster. 

Just think! Two letters, not so very Mr 
apart, from someone who worshipped her at 


134 


Ubc Master's Violin 


a distance and was afraid to sign his name! 
And this very day, not more than an hour 
ago, she had been kissed. No man had ever 
kissed Iris before, not even a grand-legal- 
cousin-once-removed. Still, she rather 
wished it had n’t happened, for she felt dif- 
ferent, someway. It would have been bet- 
ter if the writer of the letters had done it A 
romance like this set her far above the com- 
monplace — she felt very much older than 
Lynn, and was inclined to patronise him. 
He was nothing but a boy, who chased one 
around the garden with worms and put grass- 
hoppers in one’s hat. Yet one could pardon 
those things, when one was so undeniably 
popular. 

After tea, they sat in the shadowy coolness 
of the parlour, waiting. The very air was 
expectant. Aunt Peace was beautiful in shim- 
mering white, with the emerald gleaming at 
her throat. Mrs. Irving, as always, wore a 
black gown, and Iris had donned her best 
lavender muslin, in honour of the occasion. 

“Why can’t we go outside?” asked 
Margaret. 

“We can, my dear,” returned Aunt Peace, 


Hit tbe (Barren 


135 


41 but I was taught that it was better to wait 
in the house until after calling hours. Of 
course, there are few visitors in East Lancas- 
ter, but even on a desert island one must 
observe the proprieties, and a lady will always 
receive her guests in the house.” 

While she was speaking, Doctor Brinker- 
hoff opened the gate. Miss Field affected 
not to see him, and waited until the maid 
ushered him in. “Good evening, Doctor,” 
she said, “ I assure you this is quite a 
pleasure.” 

His manner toward the others was gentle, 
and even courtly, but he distinguished Miss 
Field by elaborate deference. If he disagreed 
with her, it was with evident respect for her 
opinion, and upon all disputed points he 
seemed eager to be convinced. 

“ Shall we not go into the garden ? ” asked 
Aunt Peace, addressing them all. “ We were 
just upon the point of going, Doctor, when 
you came.” 

She led the way, with the Doctor beside 
her, attentive, gallant, and considerate. Mar- 
garet came next, with Miss Field’s white 
shawl. Behind were Lynn and Iris, laughing 
like children at some secret joke. By a 


136 


XTbe /©aster’s Dioltn 


strange coincidence, five chairs were ar- 
ranged in a sociable group under the tall pine 
in a corner of the garden. 

“Yes,” Miss Field was saying, “I think 
East Lancaster is most beautiful at this time 
of year. 1 have not travelled much, but I 
have seen pictures, and 1 am content with my 
own little corner of the world.” 

“And yet, madam,” returned the Doctor, 
“ you would so much enjoy travelling. It is 
too bad that you cannot go abroad.” 

“ Perhaps I may. I have not thought of it, 
but as you speak of it, it seems to me that it 
might be very pleasant to go.” 

“Aunt Peace!” exclaimed Mrs. Irving. 
“ What are you thinking of I ” 

“Not of my seventy-five years, my dear; 
you may be sure of that.” 

“Why should n't she go?” asked Lynn. 
“Aunt Peace could go anywhere and come 
back safely. Everybody she met would fall 
in love with her, and see that she was com- 
fortable.” 

“Quite right!” said the Doctor, with evi- 
dent sincerity. 

“Flatterers!” she laughed. “Fie upon 
you! ” But there was a note of happy youth- 


In tbc (Bar ben 


137 


fulness in the voice, and they knew that she 
was pleased. 

“ If you go, madam,” the Doctor continued, 
“ it will be my pleasure to give you letters to 
friends of mine in Germany.” 

“ Thank you,” she returned, with a stately 
inclination of her head. 4 4 It would be very 
kind.” 

“ And,” he went on, “ I have many books 
which would be of service to you. Shall 
I bring some of them, the next time I 
come?” 

“I would not trouble you, Doctor, but 
sometime, if you happened to be passing.” 

“Yes,” he answered, “ when I happen to 
be passing. 1 shall not forget.” 

“ They might be interesting, if not of actual 
service. I am familiar with much that has 
been written of foreign lands. We have 
Marco Polo's Adventures in our library.” 

The Doctor coughed into his- handkerchief. 
“ The world has changed, dear madam, since 
Marco Polo travelled.” 

“ Yes,” she sighed, “ it is always changing, 
and we older ones are left far behind.” 

“Oh, nonsense!” exclaimed Lynn. “I ’ll 
tell you what, Aunt Peace, you ’re well up at 


I3» 


Zbc Master's ©to lin 


the head of the procession. You ’re no farther 
behind than the drum-major is.” 

“ The drum-major, my dear ? I do not un- 
derstand. Is he a military gentleman ? ” 

“ He ’s the boss of the whole shooting 
match,” explained Lynn, inelegantly. “He 
wears a bear-skin bonnet and tickles the 
music out of the band. If it were n’t 
for him, the whole show would go up in 
smoke.” 

“Lynn!” said Margaret, reprovingly. 
“What language 1 Aunt Peace cannot under- 
stand you! ” 

“ I ’ll bet on Aunt Peace,” remarked Lynn, 
sagely. 

“ I fear I am not quite abreast of the times,” 
said the old lady. “Do you think, Doctor, 
that the world grows better, or worse ? ” 

“ Better, madam, steadily better. I can see 
it every day.” 

“It is well for one to think so,” observed 
Margaret, “whatever the facts may be.” 

Midsummer and moonlight made enchant- 
ment in the garden. Merlin himself could 
have done no more. The house, half hidden 
in the shadow, stood waiting, as it had done 
for two centuries, while those who belonged 


■ffn tbe (Bar&en 


139 


under its roof made holiday outside. Most 
of them nad gone forever, and only their por- 
traits were left, but, replete with memories 
both happy and sad, the house could not be 
said to be alone. 

The tall pine threw its gloom far beyond 
them, and the moonlight touched Aunt Peace 
caressingly. Her silvered hair gleamed with 
unearthly beauty and her serene eyes gave 
sweet significance to her name. All those 
she cared for were about her — daughter and 
friends. 

“Nights like this,” said the Doctor, dream- 
ily, “ make one think of the old fairy tales. 
Elves and witches are not impossible, when 
the moon shines like this.” 

Lynn looked across the garden to the rose- 
bush, where a cobweb, dew-impearled, had 
captured a bit of wandering rainbow. “ They 
are far from impossible,” he answered. “I 
think they were here only the other night, 
for in the morning, when I went out to look 
at my vegetables, I found something queer 
among the leaves.” 

“ Something queer, my dear ? ” asked Aunt 
Peace, with interest. “What was it ?” 

“ A leaf of rosemary and a sprig of mignon- 


140 


XTbe Master's Wtoltn 


ette, tied round with a blade of grass and 
wet with dew.” 

“How strange,” said Margaret “How 
could it have happened ? ” 

“ Rosemary,” said Aunt Peace, “that means 
remembrance, and the mignonette means the 
hope of love. A very pretty message for a 
fairy to leave among your vegetables.” 

“Very pretty,” repeated the Doctor, nod- 
ding appreciation. 

Iris feared they heard the loud beating of 
her heart. “What do you think?” asked 
Lynn, turning to her. “Was it a fairy ?” 

“Of course,” she returned, with assumed 
indifference. “ Who else ? ” 

There was silence then, and in the house 
the clock struck ten. They heard it plainly, 
and the Doctor, with a start of recollection, 
took out his huge silver watch. 

“I had no idea it was so late,” he said. 
“ 1 must go.” 

“One moment, Doctor,” began Miss Field, 
putting out a restraining hand. “ Let me 
offer you some refreshment before you start 
upon that long walk. Iris ? ” 

“Yes, Aunt Peace.” 

“Those little cakes that we had for tea — 


In t be Garden 


141 

there may be one or two left — and is there 
not a little wine ? ” 

“I’ll see.” 

Lynn followed her, and presently they came 
back, with the Royal Worcester plate piled 
generously with cakes, and a decanter of 
the port that was famous throughout East 
Lancaster. 

With a smile upon her lips, the old lady 
leaned forward, into the moonlight, glass in 
hand. The brim of another touched it and 
the clear ring of crystal seemed carried afar 
into the night. 

‘‘To your good health, madam.” 

“And to your prosperity.” 

“This has been very charming,” said the 
Doctor, as he brushed away the crumbs,” 
“and now, my dear Miss Iris, may we not 
hope for a song?” 

“ Which one ?” 

“ ‘Annie Laurie/ if you please.” 

Iris went in, and Margaret made a move to 
follow her. “ Don’t go, mother,” said Lynn, 
“ let *s stay here.” 

“ I 'm afraid Aunt Peace will take cold.” 

“ No, dearie, I have my shawl. Let me be 
young again, just for to-night, with no fear 


TTbe /©aster’s IDtoUn 


142 

of draughts or colds. Midsummer has never 
hurt anyone, and, as Doctor Brinkerhoff says, 
the good fairies are abroad to-night.” 

The old-fashioned ballad took on new 
beauty and meaning. Mellowed by the dis- 
tance, the girl’s deep contralto was surpass- 
ingly tender and sweet. When she came out, 
the others were silent, with the spell of her 
song still upon them. 

“A good voice,” said Lynn, half to him- 
self. “ She should study.” 

“ Iris has had lessons,” returned Aunt Peace, 
with gentle dignity, “and her voice pleases 
her friends. What is there beyond that ? ” 

“ Fame,” said Lynn. 

“ Fame is the love of the many,” Aunt 
Peace rejoined, “and counts for no more 
than the love of the few. The great ones 
have said it was barren, and my little girl 
will be better off here.” 

As she spoke, she put her arm around 
Iris, and they went to the house together. 
At the steps, there was a pause, and Doctor 
Brinkerhoff said good night 

“ It has been perfect,” said Miss Field, as 
she gave him her hand. “ If this wer* to 
be my last night on earth, I could not ask 


In tbe (Barbeit 


143 


for more — my beautiful garden, with the 
moonlight shining upon it, music, and my 
best friends.” 

The Doctor was touched, and bent low 
over her hand, pressing it ever so lightly 
with his lips. “ l thank you, dear madam,” 
he answered, gently, “ for the happiest even- 
ing I have ever spent.” 

“ Come again, then,” she said, graciously, 
with a happy little laugh. “ The years 
stretch fair before us, when one is but seventy- 
five 1 ” 

That night, just at the turn of dawn, Mar- 
garet was awakened by a hot hand upon her 
face. “Dearie,” said Aunt Peace, weakly, 
“will you come? I'm almost burning up 
with fever.” 


XI 


“Sunset and Evening Star” 

OCTOR BRINKERHOFF came in the 



LJ morning, but afterward, when Mar- 
garet questioned him, he shook his head 
sadly. “I will do the best I can,” he said, 
“and none of us can do more..” He went 
down the path, bent and old. He seemed to 
have aged since the previous night 

On Friday, Lynn went to Herr Kaufmann’s 
as usual, but he played carelessly. “Young 
man,” said the Master, “ why is it that you 
study the violin ? ” 

“Why?” repeated Lynn. “Well, why 
not?” 

“It is all the same,” returned the Master, 
frankly. “ 1 can teach you nothing. You 
have the technique and the good wrist, you 
read quickly, but you play like one parrot. 
When I say ‘fortissimo/ you play fortissimo; 
when I say ‘allegro/ you play allegro. You 


44 Sunset anb Evening Star ” 145 


are one obedient pupil/ he continued, mak- 
ing no effort to conceal his scorn. 

“ What else should I be ?” asked Lynn. 

“ Do not misunderstand,” said the Master, 
more kindly. “ You can play the music as 
it is written. If that satisfies you, well and 
good, but the great ones have something 
more. They make the music to talk from 
one to another, but you express nothing. 
It is a possibility that you have nothing to 
express.” 

Lynn walked back and forth with his hands 
behind his back, vaguely troubled. 

“One moment,” the Master went on, 
“ have you ever felt sorry ? ” 

“Sorry for what?” 

“ Anything.” 

“Of course — I am often sorry.” 

“Well,” sighed the Master, instantly com- 
prehending, “you are young, and it may yet 
come, but the sorrows of youth are more 
sharp than those of age, and there is not much 
chance. The violin is the most noble of in- 
struments. It is for those who have been 
sorry to play to those who are. You have 
nothing to give, but it is one pity to lose your 
fine technique. Since you wish to amuse, 


146 


Zbc toaster's ©loUn 


change your instrument, and study the banjo, 
or perhaps the concertina.” 

Lynn understood no more than if Herr 
Kaufmann had spoken in a foreign tongue. 
“ I may have to stop for a little while/* he 
said, “for my aunt is ill, and I can’t practise.” 

“ Practise here,” returned the Master, indif- 
ferently. “ Fredrika will not care. Or go to 
the office of mine friend, the Herr Doctor. 
He will not mind. A fine gentleman, but he 
has no ear, no taste. Until you acquire the 
concertina, you may keep on with the 
violin.” 

“My mother,” began Lynn. “She wants 
me to be an artist.” 

“ An artist ! ” repeated the Master, with a 
bitter laugh. “Your mother — ” here he 
paused and looked keenly into Lynn’s eyes. 
Something was stirred; some far-off memory. 
“ She believes in you, is it not so ? ” 

“Yes, she does — she has always believed 
in me.” 

“Well,” said the Master, with an indefin- 
able shrug, “we must not disappoint her. 
You work on like one faithful parrot, and I 
continue with your instruction. It is good 
that mothers are so easy to please.” 


" Sunset an& Opening Star ” 147 


“Herr KaufTmann,” pleaded the boy, “tell 
me. Shall I ever be an artist?” 

“Yes, I think so.” 

“When?” 

“When the river flows up hill and the sun 
rises in the west.” 

Suddenly, Lynn’s face turned white. “I 
will 1” he cried, passionately ; “I will! I will 
be an artist I I tell you, 1 will!” 

“Perhaps,” returned the Master. He was 
apparently unmoved, but afterward, when 
Lynn had gone, he regretted his harshness. 
“I may be mistaken,” he admitted to himself, 
grudgingly. “ There may be something in the 
boy, after all. He is young yet, and his mother, 
she believes in him. Well, we shall see!” 

Lynn went home by a long, circuitous route. 
Far beyond East Lancaster was a stretch of 
woodland which he had not as yet explored. 
Herr Kaufmann’s words still rang in his ears, 
and for the first time he doubted himself. 
He sat down on a rock to think it over. “ He 
said I had the technique,” mused Lynn, “ but 
why should I feel sorry ?” 

After long study, he concluded that the 
Master was eccentric, as genius is popularly 
supposed to be, and determined to think no 


148 


XTbe /toaster's IDtoUn 


more of it. Still, it was not so easily put 
wholly aside. “You play like one parrot/’ 
— that single sentence, like a barbed shaft, had 
pierced the armour of his self-esteem. 

He went on through the woods, and stopped 
at a pile of rocks near a spring. It might 
have been an altar erected to the deity of the 
wood, but for one symbol. On the topmost 
stone was chiselled a cross. 

“Wonder who did it,” said Lynn, to him- 
self, “and what for.” He found some wild 
berries, made a cup of leaves, and filled it 
with the fragrant fruit, planning to take it to 
Aunt Peace. 

But when he reached home Aunt Peace 
was far beyond the thought of berries. She 
was delirious, and her ravings were pitiful. 
Iris was as white as a ghost, and Margaret 
was sorely troubled. 

“ Lynn,” she said, “ don’t go away. I need 
you. Where have you been ? ” 

“To my lesson, and then for a walk. Herr 
Kaufmann says I may practise there sometimes. 
He also suggested Doctor Brinkerhoffs.” 

“ That was kind, and I am sure the Doctor 
will be willing. How does he think you are 
getting along?” 


41 Sunset ant) Evening Star ” 149 


She asked the question idly, and scarcely 
expected an answer, but Lynn turned his face 
away and refused to meet her eyes. “Not 
very well, ,, he said, in a low tone. 

“Why not, dear? You practise enough, 
' don’t you ?” 

“Yes, I think so. He says I have the 
technique and the good wrist, but I play like 
a parrot, and can only amuse. He told me 
to take up the concertina.” 

Margaret smiled. “That is his way. Just 
go on, dear, and do the very best you can.” 

“But I don’t want to disappoint you, 
mother — I want to be an artist.” 

“Lynn, dear, you will never disappoint 
me. You have been a comfort to me since 
the day you were born. What should I have 
done without you in all these years that I 
have been alone! ” 

She drew his tall head down and kissed 
him, but Lynn, boy-like, evaded the senti- 
ment and turned it into a joke. “That’s 
very Irish, mother — ‘what would you have 
done without me in all the time you ’ve been 
alone ? ’ How is the invalid ? ” 

“ The fever is high,” sighed Margaret, “ and 
Doctor Brinkerhoff looks very grave.” 


Zbc /toaster's IDfoitn 


150 

“I hope she is n’t going to die,” said Lynn, 
conventionally. “ Can I do anything ? ” 

“ No, nothing but wait. Sometimes I think 
that waiting is the very hardest thing in the 
world.” 

That day was like the others. Weeks went 
by, and still Aunt Peace fought gallantly with 
her enemy. Doctor Drinkerhoff took up his 
abode in the great spare chamber and was ab- 
sent from the house only when there was urgent 
need of his services elsewhere. He even gave 
up his Sunday afternoons at Herr Kaufmann’s, 
and Fraulein Fredrika was secretly distressed. 

“Fredrika,” said the Master, gently, “the 
suffering ones have need of our friend. We 
must not be selfish.” 

“Our friend possesses great skill,” replied 
the Fraulein, with quiet dignity. “Do you 
think he will forget us, Franz ?” 

“ Forget 1 us ? No! Fear not, Fredrika; it is 
only little loves and little friendships that 
forget. One does not need those ties which 
can be broken. The Herr Doctor himself has 
said that, and of a surety, he knows. Let us 
be patient and wait” 

“To wait,” repeated Fredrika; “one finds 
it difficult, is it not so ? ” 


44 Sunset ant) Evening Star ” 151 


''Yes,” smiled the Master, “but when one 
has learned to wait patiently, one has learned 
to live. ,, 

Meanwhile, Aunt Peace grew steadily 
weaker, and the strain was beginning to tell 
upon all. Doctor Brinkerhoff had lost his 
youth — he was an old man. Margaret, pain- 
fully anxious, found relief from heartache only 
in unremitting toil. Iris ate very little, slept 
scarcely at all, and crept about the house like 
the ghost of her former self. Lynn alone 
maintained his cheerfulness. 

“Iris,” said Aunt Peace, one day, “come 
here.” 

“ I ’m here,” said the girl, kneeling beside 
the bed, and putting her cold hand upon the 
other’s burning cheek, “what can I do?” 

“Nothing, dearie. I could get well, I 
think, were it not for my terrible dreams.” 

Iris shuddered, and yet was thankful be- 
cause Aunt Peace could call her delirium 
“dreams.” 

“Lately,” continued Aunt Peace, “I have 
been afraid that I am not going to get well.” 

“Don’t!” cried Iris, sharply, turning her 
face away. 

“Dearie, dearie,” said the other, caress- 


152 


Ubc /toaster's tDtolln 


ingly, “be my brave girl, and let me talk to 
you. When the dreams come back, I shall 
not know you, but now 1 do. I am stronger 
to-day, and we are alone, are we not ? Where 
are the others ? ” 

“The Doctor has gone to see someone 
who is very ill Lynn has taken Mrs, Irving 
out for a walk." 

“I am glad,” said Aunt Peace, tenderly. 
“ Margaret has been very good to me. You 
have all been good to me.” 

Iris stroked the flushed face softly with her 
cool hand. In her eyes were love and long- 
ing, and a foreshadowed loneliness. 

“Dearie,” Aunt Peace continued, “listen 
while I have the strength to speak. AH the 
papers are in a tin box, in the trunk in the 
attic. There you will find everything that is 
known of your father and mother. I do not 
anticipate any need of the information, but it 
is well that you should know where to find it. 

“I have left the house to Margaret,” she 
went on, with difficulty, “for it was right- 
fully hers, and after her it goes to Lynn, but 
there is a distinct understanding that it shall 
be your home while you live, if you choose 
to claim it. Margaret has promised me to keep 


4 ‘ Sunset ant) Buenfno Star ” 153 


you with her. When Lynn marries, as some 
day he will, you will be left alone. You and 
Margaret can make a home together.” 

The girl’s face was hidden in her hands, 
and her shoulders shook with sobs. 

“Don’t, dearie,” pleaded Aunt Peace, gently; 
“be my brave girl. Look up at me and 
smile. Don’t, dearie — please don’t! 

•* 1 have left you enough to make you com- 
fortable,” she went on, after a little, “but not 
enough to be a care to you, nor to make you 
the prey of fortune hunters. It is, I think, 
securely invested, and you will have the in- 
come while you live. Some few keepsakes 
are yours, also — they are written down in” 
— here she hesitated — “in a paper Doctor 
Brinkerhoff has. He has been very good to 
us, dearie. He is almost your foster-father, 
for he was with me when I found you. He 
is a gentleman,” she said, with something of 
her old spirit, “though he has no social 
position.” 

“ Social position is not much, Aunt Peace, 
beside the things that really count, do you 
think it is ? ” 

“ 1 hardly know, dearie, but I have changed 
my mind about a great many things since 1 


154 


TTbc flDaster’s IDfottn 


have lain here. I was never ill before — in all 
my seventy-five years, I have never been ill 
more than a day at a time, and it seems very 
hard/* 

“ It is hard, Aunt Peace, but we hope you 
will soon be well.” 

“No, dearie,” she answered, “I’m afraid 
not. But do not let us borrow trouble, and 
let me tell you something to remember. 
When you have the heartache, dearie,” — here 
the old eyes looked trustfully into the younger 
ones, — “ don’t forget that you made me happy. 
You have filled my days with sunshine, and, 
more than anything else, you have kept me 
young. I know you thought me harsh at 
first, but now, I am sure you understand. 
You have been my own dear daughter, Iris. 
If you had been my own flesh and blood, you 
could not have been more to me than you have.” 

Margaret came in, and Iris went away, sob- 
bing bitterly. Aunt Peace sighed heavily. 
Her cheeks were scarlet, and her eyes burned 
like stars. 

“ 1 'm afraid you 've tired yourself,” said 
Margaret, softly. “Was I gone too long ? ” 

“No, indeed! Iris has been with me, and 
I am better to-day.” 


44 Sunset ant) Evening Star ” 155 


“Try to sleep,” said Margaret, soothingly. 

Obediently, Aunt Peace closed her eyes, 
but presently she sat up. “I ’m so warm,” 
she said, fretfully. “ Where is Doctor Brink- 
erhoff?” 

“ He has not come yet, but I think he will 
be here soon.” 

“Margaret ?” 

“Yes, Aunt Peace.” 

“ Will you write off the recipe for those lit- 
tle cakes for him ? He may be able to find 
someone to make them for him, though of 
course they will not be the same.” 

“Yes, I will.” 

“ It ’s in my book. They are called * Doc- 
tor Brinkerhoffs cakes.’ You will not for- 
get?” 

“No, I won’t forget Can’t you sleep 
now ? ” 

“ I ’ll try.” 

Presently, the deep regular breathing told 
that she was asleep. Iris came back with her 
eyes swollen and Margaret took her out into 
the hall They sat there for a long time, 
hand in hand, waiting, but no sound came 
from the other room. 

“ I cannot bear it,” moaned Iris, her mouth 


156 Zbc toaster's Violin 

quivering. “ I cannot bear to have Aunt 
Peace die.’’ 

“ Life has many meanings,” said Margaret, 
“but it is what we make it, after all. The 
pendulum swings from daylight to darkness, 
from sun to storm, but the balance is always 
true.” 

Iris leaned against her, insensibly comforted. 

“ She would be the first to tell you not to 
grieve,” Margaret went on, though her voice 
faltered, “and still, we need sorrow as the 
world needs night. We cannot always live in 
the sun. We can take what comes to us 
bravely, as gentlewomen should, but we 
must take it, dear — there is no other way.” 

Long afterward, Iris remembered the look 
on Margaret’s face as she said it, but the tears 
blinded her just then. 

Doctor Brinkerhoff came back at twilight, 
anxious and worn, yet eager to do his share. 
Through the night he watched with her, alert, 
capable, and unselfish, putting aside his per- 
sonal grief for the sake of the others. 

In the last days, those two had grown very 
near together. When the dreams came, he 
held her in his arms until the tempest passed, 
and afterwards, soothed her to sleep. 


44 Sunset ant) Evening Star ” 157 

“Doctor,” she said one day, “ I have been 
thinking a great deal while I have lain here. 
I seem never to have had the time before. I 
think it is well, at the end, to have a little 
space of calm, for one sees so much more 
clearly.” 

“You have always seen clearly, dear lady,” 
said the Doctor, very gently. 

“Not always,” she answered, shaking her 
head. “ 1 can see many a mistake now. 
The fogs have sometimes gathered thick 
about me, but now they have lifted forever. 
We are but ships on the sea of life,” she went 
on. “My course has lain through calm 
waters, for the most part, with the skies blue 
and fair above me. I have been sheltered, 
and I can see now that it might have made 
me stronger and better to face some of the 
storms. Still, my Captain knows, and now, 
when I can hear the breakers booming on the 
reef where I am to strike my colours, I am 
not afraid.” 

The end came on Sunday, just at sunset, 
while the bells were tolling for the vesper 
service. The crescent moon rocked idly in 
the west, and a star glimmered faintly above 
it. 


158 


Zbc toaster's tittoUn 


“Sunset and evening star,” she repeated, 
softly. “And one clear call for me. Will 
you say the rest of it ? ” 

Choking, Doctor Brinkerhoff went on with 
the poem until he reached the last verse, 
when he could speak no more. 

“ For though from out our bourne of time and place 
The flood may bear me far, 

I hope to meet my Pilot face to face 
When I have crossed the bar.” 

She finished it, then turned to him with her 
face illumined. “ It is beautiful/’ she said, 
“is it not, my friend ?” 

Twilight came, and Margaret found them 
there when she went in with a lighted can- 
dle. The Doctor sat at the side of the bed, 
very stiff and straight, with the tears stream- 
ing over his wrinkled face. On his shoulder, 
like a tired child, lay Aunt Peace, who had 
put on, at last, her Necklace of Perfect Joy. 


J 


\ 


XII 


Cbe false Xine 


P in the darkened chamber where Aunt 



w Peace lay, Iris stood face to face with 
the greatest sorrow of her life. Was this, 
then, the end? Was there nothing more? 
Cold as snow, unpitying as marble, Death 
mocked Iris as she stood there, mutely ques- 
tioning. Timidly she touched the waxen 
cheek. The crimson fires burned there no 
more — the fever was gone. 

Through the house resounded the steady 
tread of muffled feet. Of all the horrors of 
Death, the worst is that seemingly endless 
procession who come to offer “ sympathy,” 
to ask if there is anything they can do. Mere 
acquaintances, privileged only by a casual nod, 
break down all barriers when the Conqueror 
comes. Is it that idle curiosity which occa- 
sionally dominates the best of us, or is it Life, 
triumphant for the moment, looking forward 
fearfully to its inevitable end ? 


i6o 


XTbe /©aster's IDtolin 


Some “friend of the family,” high in its 
confidence, assumes the responsibility at such 
times. Chance callers are rewarded with 
grisly details and grewsome descriptions of 
the soul struggling to free itself from its 
bonds. We are told how the others “took 
it,” when at last the sail was spread for the 
voyage over the uncharted sea. 

In the hall, straight as a soldier under orders, 
stood Doctor Brinkerhoff. “No, madam,” 
he would say, “ there is nothing you can do. 
The arrangements are made. I will tell Mrs. 
Irving and Miss Temple that you called. Yes, 
we were expecting it. She died peacefully; 
there was no pain. To-morrow at four.” 

And then again: “Thank you, there is 
nothing you can do, but it is kind of you to 
offer. The ladies will be grateful for your 
sympathy. Who shall I say called ? ” 

“Iris,” pleaded Margaret, “come away.” 

The girl started. “ I can’t,” she answered, 
dully. 

“ You must come, dear — come into mv 
room.” 

Unwillingly, Iris suffered herself to be led 
away. It is only the surface emotion which 
is relieved by tears. Within the prison-house 


TLbc ifalse %in c 


161 


of the soul, when Grief, clad in grey gar- 
ments, enters silently and prepares to remain, 
there is no weeping. One hides it, as the 
Spartan covered the bleeding wound in his 
breast. 

“Dear,” said Margaret, “my heart aches 
for you.” 

“ She was all I had,” whispered Iris. 

“ But not all you have. Lynn and I, and 
Doctor Brinkerhoff — surely we are some- 
thing.” 

“ Did you ever care?” asked Iris, her de- 
spairing eyes fixed upon Margaret. 

The older woman shrank from the question. 
She was tempted to dissemble, but one tells 
the truth in the presence of Death. 

“Not as you care,” she answered. “My 
mother broke my heart. She took me away 
from the man I loved, and forced me to marry 
another, whom I only respected. When my 
husband died, 7 I had my freedom, but it came 
too late. When my mother died — she died 
unforgiven.” 

“ Then you don't understand.” 

“Yes, dear, I understand. You must re- 
member that I loved her too.” 


“ Suppose it had been Lynn ? ” 


162 


Ubc Master's IDioUn 


" Lynn ! ” cried Margaret, with her lips 
white. “Lynn! Dear God, no! ” 

Iris laughed hysterically. “ You do not 
understand/' she said, with forced calmness, 
“but you would if it were Lynn. You 
would not let me keep you away if it were 
Lynn instead of Aunt Peace, so please do not 
disturb me again.” 

Back she went, into the darkened chamber, 
and closed the door. 

Lynn walked back and forth through the 
halls aimlessly. All along, he had felt the 
repulsion of the healthy young animal for 
the aged and ill. Now he was unmoved, 
save by the dank, sweet smell of the house 
of death. It grated on his sensibilities and 
made him shudder. He wished that it was 
over. 

From his mother, he felt a curious aliena- 
tion. Her eyes were red, and, man-like, 
Lynn hated tears. From Doctor Brinkerhoff, 
too, a gulf divided him. 

His fingers itched for his violin, but he 
could not practise. It would not disturb Aunt 
Peace, but it would be considered out of keep- 
ing with the situation. The Doctor’s rooms 
over the post-office were also impossible. 


Ube false Xine 


163 


He smiled at the thought of the gossip which 
would permeate East Lancaster if he should 
practise there. 

But at Herr Kaufmann’s ? His face bright- 
ened, and with characteristic impulsiveness 
he hastened downstairs. 

Doctor Brinkerhoff still stood in the hall, a 
little wearily, perhaps, but calmness overlaid 
his features like a mask. Lynn wondered at 
the change in him. 

“Mr. Irving,” he said, huskily, “you were 
going out ? ” 

“ Yes,” replied Lynn, “ to Herr Kaufmann’s. 
I can do nothing here,” he added, by way of 
apology. 

“No,” sighed the Doctor, “ no one can do 
anything here, but wait one moment” 

“Yes?” responded Lynn, with a rising 
inflection. “ Is there some message ?” 

“ It is my message,” said the Doctor, with 
dignity. “ Say to him, please, that no pro- 
vision has been made for music to-morrow, 
and that I would like him to come. Be sure 
to say that I ask it” 

“Very well” 

Lynn moved away from the house decor- 
ously, though the freedom of the outer air 


Gbe /Raster's Violin 


164 


and the spring of the turf beneath his feet 
lifted the cloud from his spirits and urged him 
to hasten his steps. 

Doctor Brinkerhoff looked after him, his 
old eyes dim. The impassable chasm of the 
years lay between him and Lynn — a measure- 
less gulf which no trick of magic might span. 
“If I had it to do over,” said the Doctor, to 
himself, — “if I had my lost youth — and was..- 
not afraid, — things would not be as they are 
now.” 

Margaret saw him from her upper window, 
and something tightened round her heart, a^> 
though some iron hand held it unpityingly. 
Then came a great throb of relief, because it 
was Aunt Peace, instead of Lynn. 

Iris, too, had seen him as he left the house. 
She perceived that he was eager to get away 
— that only a sense of the fitness of things 
kept him from running and whistling as was 
his wont. From the first, she had known 
that it was nothing to him. “ He has no 
heart,” she said to herself. “He is as cold 
as — as cold as Aunt Peace is now.” 

Slow torture held the girl in a remorseless 
gird. Dimly, she knew that some day there 
would be a change — that it could not always 


TLbc false Xlne 


165 

be like this. Sometime it must ease, and 
each throb would be sensibly less of a hurt — 
just a little easier to bear. With rare pre- 
science, also, she knew that nothing in the 
world would ever be the same again — that 
she had come to the dividing line. One 
reaches it as a light-hearted child; one crosses 
it — a woman. 

“No,” said the Doctor, for the fiftieth time, 
“there is nothing you can do. Mrs. Irving 
and Miss Temple are not receiving. Yes, we 
expected it. The end was very peaceful and 
she did not suffer at all. Yes, it is surely a 
comfort to know that. The arrangements 
are all made. Yes, thank you, we have the 
music provided for. It was kind of you to 
come, and the ladies will be grateful for your 
sympathy. Who shall I say called ? ” 

Behind him were the portraits, ranged in 
orderly rows. Some were old and others 
young, but all had gone the way that Peace 
should go to-morrow. Dumbly, the Doctor 
wondered if the same remorseless question- 
ing had gone on every time there had been 
a death in the old house, and, if so, why the 
very floors did not cry out in protest at the 
desecration. 


1 66 


Xtbe toaster's molln 


Life, that mystery of mysteries I The sil- 
ence at the end and the beginning is far easier 
to understand than the rainbow that arches 
between. Man, the epitome of his forbears, 
— more than that, the epitome of creation, — 
stands by himself — the riddle of the universe. 

The house in some way seemed alive, in 
pitiful contrast to its mistress, who lay up- 
stairs, spending her last night in the virginal 
whiteness of her chamber. To-night there, 
and to-morrow night 

Doctor Brinkerhoff, unable to bear the 
thought, recoiled as if from an unexpected 
blow. Was it fancy, or did the painted lips 
of the young officer in the uniform of the 
Colonies part in an ironical smile ? 

“So,” said the Master, as he opened the 
door, “you are late to your lesson.” 

“ It is my lesson day, is n’t it ? ” returned 
Lynn. “ But I have only come to practise. 
My aunt is dead.” 

“So? Your aunt?” 

“Yes, Aunt Peace. Miss Field, you know, ” 
he continued, in explanation. 

“ So ? 1 did not know. When Was it ? ” 

“ Sunday afternoon.” 


Ube false Xlne 


167 


44 And this is Tuesday. Well, we hear very 
little up here. It is too bad.” 

“Yes,” agreed Lynn, awkwardly, 44 It — 
it upsets things.” 

The Master looked at him narrowly. 44 So 
it does. For instance, you have lost one 
lesson on account of it, but you can practise. 
Come down in mine shop where I am finish- 
ing mine violin. You shall play your con- 
certo. It is not a necessity to lose the practise 
for death.” 

44 That’s what I thought,” said Lynn, as they 
went downstairs. “She was very old, you 
know — more than seventy-five. There is a 
great deal of fuss made about such things.” 

Again the Master looked at him sharply, but 
Lynn was unconscious and perfectly sincere. 
He was not touched at all. 

“You can have one of mine violins,” the 
Master resumed, 44 and I shall finish the one 
upon which 1 am at work. The concerto, 
please.” 

At once Lynn began, walking back and 
forth restlessly as he played. He had long 
since memorised the composition, and when 
he finished the first movement he paused to 
tighten a string. 


1 68 


TLbc Master’s UUoIln 


“You,” said the Master, — “you have 
studied composition ? ” 

“Only a little.” 

“ You feel no gift in that line ?” 

“No, not at all.” 

“ It is only to play ? ” 

“ Yes, for the present.” 

“Then,” said the Master, changing the 
position of the bridge on the violin in his 
hand, “if you have no talents for composi- 
tion, why do you not let the composer of 
your concerto have his own way? You 
should not correct him — it is most impolite.” 

“What — what do you mean?” stam- 
mered Lynn. 

“ Nothing,” said the Master, “ only, if you 
have no gifts, you should play G sharp where 
it is written, instead of G natural. It is not 
what one might call an improvement in the 
concerto.” 

Lynn flushed, and began to play the move- 
ment over again, but before he reached the 
bar in question he had forgotten. When he 
came to it he played G natural again, and 
instantly perceived his mistake. 

The Master laughed. “ Genius,” he said, 
“ must have its own way. It is not to be 


Ube false Xlne 


I69 


held down by the written score. It must 
make changes, flourishes, improvements. It 
is one pity that the composer cannot know.” 

“ I forgot,” temporised Lynn. 

“ So ? Then why not take up the parlour 
organ? You should have an instrument on 
which the notes are all made. I should not 
advise the banjo, or even the concertina. 
The organ that turns by the handle would 
be better yet. To make the notes — that is 
most difficult, is it not so ? Now, then, the 
adagio. Let us see how much you can better 
that.” 

Lynn played it correctly, and with iri- 
telligence, but without feeling. 

“ One moment,” said the Master. “There 
is something I do not understand. That ada- 
gio is one of the most beautiful things ever 
written. It is full of one heartache and has 
in it many tears. Your aunt, you say, lies 
dead in your house, and yet you play it like 
one machine. I cannot see! Perhaps you 
had quarrelled ?” 

" No,” returned Lynn, in astonishment, “ I 
was very, very fond of her.” 

There was a long silence, then the Master 
sighed. “The thing means more than the 


170 


ZEbe dDaster’s DtoUn 


person, ” he said. “ Whoever is dead, if it is 
only one little bird, it should make you feel 
sad. But it waits. Before you have finished, 
the world will do one ol three things to 
you. It will make your heart very soft, very 
hard, or else break it, so. No one escapes. ” 

** By the way,” began Lynn, eager to change 
the subject, “ Doctor BrinkerhofT told me to 
ask you to come and play at the funeral to- 
morrow at four o’clock. He said it was his 
wish.” 

The Master’s face was troubled. “ Once,” 
he said, “ I promised one very angry lady that 
I would not go in that house again, and I have 
kept mine word. It was only once I went, 
but that was too much. Still, it was twenty- 
five years and more past, and she has long since 
been dead. Death frees one from a promise, 
is it not so ? ” 

4 4 Of course,” replied Lynn, vaguely. 

“ At any rate, mine friend, the Herr Doctor, 
has asked it, even after he has known of mine 
promise, and, of a surety, he is wiser than I. 
I will come, at four, with mine violin.” 

Lynn took the long way home, his sunny 
nature deeply disturbed. “ What is it ? ” he 
vainly asked of himself. “Am 1 different 


Ube false Xine 


171 

from everybody else ? They all seem to 
know something that I do not.” 

Iris kept her long vigil by Aunt Peace, her 
grief too great for her starved body to with- 
stand. At the sound of a fall, Doctor Brink- 
erhoff left his post and hurried upstairs. 
Margaret was there almost as soon as he 
was. Iris had fainted. 

Together, they carried her into her own 
room, whereat length she revived. “What 
happened ? ” she asked, weakly. “ Did I fall ? ” 

“ Hush, dear,” said Margaret. “ Lie still. 
I ’m coming to sit with you after a while.” 

She went out into the hall to speak to the 
Doctor, but he was not there. By instinct, 
she knew where to find him, and went into 
the front room. 

He stood with his back to the door, looking 
down upon that marble face. Margaret was 
beside him, before he knew of her presence, 
and when he turned, for once off his guard, 
she read his secret. 

“ She never knew,” he said, briefly, as 
though in explanation. “I never dared to 
tell her. Sometimes I think the lines we 
draw are false ones — that God knows best.” 


172 


Ube toaster's Violin 


“Yes,” replied Margaret, unsteadily, “the 
lines are false, but it is always too late when 
we find it out.” 

“Yet a part of the barrier was of His own 
making. She was infinitely above me. I 
should have been her slave; I was never 
meant to be her equal. Still, the thirsty heart 
will aspire to the waters beyond its reach.” 

“She knows now,” said Margaret. 

“Yes, she knows now, and she pardons 
me for my presumption. I can read it in her 
face as I stand here.” 

Margaret choked back a sob. “Come 
away,” she said, with her hand upon his 
arm, “ come away until to-morrow.” 

“ Until to-morrow,” he repeated, softly. 
He closed the door quietly, as though he 
feared the sound might break her sleep. 

Iris was resting, and Margaret tiptoed down 
into the parlour, where the Doctor sat with 
his grey head bowed upon his hands. “ She 
knows it now,” he said again, “ and she for- 
gives me. I can feel it in my heart.” 

“If she had known it before,” said Mar- 
garet, “things would have been different,” 
but she knew that what she said was un- 
true. 


Ube false Xlne 


173 


“ No,” he returned, shaking his head, “ the 
line was there. You would not know what 
it is like unless there had been a line between 
you and the one you loved.” 

“There was,” she answered, hoarsely, then 
her eyes met his. 

“You, too ? ” he asked, unbelieving, but she 
could not speak. She only bowed her head in 
assent. Then his hand grasped hers in full 
understanding. The false line divided them, 
also, but in one thing, at least, they were 
kindred. 

“ I wish,” said the Doctor, after a little, 
“that we could hide her away before to-mcr- 
row. The people she has held herself apart 
from all her life will come and look at her 
now that she is helpless.” 

“ That is the irony of it,” returned Margaret. 
“ I have even prayed to outlive those I hated, 
so that they could not come and look at me 
when I was dead.” 

“ Have you outlived them ?” 

“ Yes,” answered Margaret, thickly, “every 

_ _ _ »» 

one. 

“ You hated someone who drew the felse 
*ine?” 

“Yes.” 


Ubc toaster's Violin 


m 


“ And that person is dead ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then,” said the Doctor, very gently, 
“when you have forgiven, the line will be 
blotted out. The one on the other side of it 
may be out of your reach forever, but the line 
will be gone.” 

The idea was new to her, that she must 
forgive. She thought of it long afterward, 
when the house was as quiet as its sleeping 
mistress, and the pale stars faded to pearl at 
the hour of dawn. 

The third day came ; the end of that pitiful 
period ij which we wait, blindly hoping that 
the miracle of resurrection may be given once 
more, and the stone be rolled away from our 
dead. 

It was Doctor Brinkerhoflf who had the 
casket closed before the strangers came, and 
afterward he told Margaret. “ She would be 
thankful,” Margaret assured him, and his eyes 
filled. “ Yes,” he answered, huskily, “ I be- 
lieve she would.” 

They sat together at the head of the stairs, 
out of sight, and yet within hearing. Lynn 
sat at one end, still perplexed, and shuddering 
at the unpleasantness of it all. His mother’s 


TEbe false Xtne 


175 


hand was in his, and with her left arm she 
supported Iris, who leaned heavily against 
her shoulder, broken-hearted. On the other 
side of Iris was Doctor BrinkerhofT, austere 
and alone. 

From below came the wonderful words of 
the burial service: “I am the resurrection 
and the life. He that believeth on me, though 
he were dead, yet shall he live.” It was fol- 
/ lowed by a beautiful tribute to Aunt Peace 
— to the countless good deeds of her five 
and seventy years. 

Then there was silence, broken by the 
muffled sound of a string being tightened to 
harmonise with the piano. Swiftly upon the 
discordant note, the voice of a violin, strong, 
clear, and surpassingly sweet, rose in an Ave 
Maria. 

Margaret started to her feet. “ What is it ?” 
she whispered, hoarsely. 

“Mother,” said Lynn, in a low tone, “ don’t 
It is only Herr Kaufmann. We asked him 
to play.” 

“The Cremona!” she muttered. “The 
Cremona — here — to-day ! ” 

She lay back in her chair with her eyes 
dosed and her mouth quivering. Lynn held 


176 


XTbe toasters Wolfit 


her hand tightly, and Iris breathed hard. 
Doctor Brinkerhoff listened intently, his heart 
rejoicing in the beauty of it, because it was 
done for her. 

Deep chords, full and splendid, sounded an 
ultimate triumph over Death. The music 
counselled acceptance, resignation, because of 
something that lay beyond — indefinite, yet 
complete restitution, when the time of its 
fulfilment should be at hand. Beside it, the 
individual grief sank into insignificance — it 
was the sorrow of the world demanding pay- 
ment for itself from the world’s joy. 

Something vast and appealing took the 
place of the finite passion, seeking hungrily 
for its own ends, and in the greatness of it, 
with heart uplifted, Margaret forgave the 
dead. 


XIII 

Co Iris 

“ T^v AUGHTER of the Marshes, the winds 
LJ have told me you are sad. If I could, 
I would bear it for you, but there is no way 
by which one of us may take another’s 
burden. 

“I wish I might come to you, but now, 
when you are troubled, I will not ask you for 
a signal, even for a flower on the gate-post. 
I would always have you happy, dear, if my 
love could buy it from the Fates — those deep 
eyes of yours should never be veiled by the 
mist of tears. 

“Do you know where the marsh is, Iris ? 

You have lived in East Lancaster for many 

years, so the gossips tell me, yet I doubt 

whether you could find it unless someone 

showed you the way. To reach it 

follow the river, through, all its 

windings, for many 
12 



i 7 8 


Zbe Master's BHottit 


“Up in those distant hills, so far that I 
have never found it, the river begins — per- 
haps in some tiny pool of crystal clearness. 
It sings along over its rocky bed until it 
reaches a low, sandy plain, and here is the 
marsh. I was there the other day, just at 
sunset; my heart thrilled with the beauty of 
it because it is the beauty of you. 

“ How shall I tell you of the wonder of the 
marshes, those wide, watery plains embroid- 
ered with strange bloom ? Tall, slender rushes 
stand there, bending gracefully when the wind 
passes, and answering with music to the touch. 
Have you ever heard the song of the marshes 
when the wind moves through the rushes 
and plays upon them like strings ? Some day, 
1 will take you there, and you shall listen, too, 
and tell me what you think it means. 

44 Here and there are pools, set like jewels 
among the rushes, with never a hint of 
growth. Sometimes you see a wide sweep 
of grass, starred with tiny yellow flowers, or 
a lily, surrounded by its leaves, drinking in 
the loveliness of the day and forgetting all 
the maze of slime and dark water through 
which it has somehow come. I think our 
souls are like that, Iris — we grow through 


TLo Aria 


179 


the world, with all its darkness, borne up- 
ward by unfailing aspiration, until we reach 
the end, which we have been taught to call 
Heaven, but which is only blossoming in the 
light. 

“ But of ail the radiant beauty of marshes, 
the best is this — that part of it which bears 
the purple flower of your name. In and out 
of the rushes, like the thread of a strange 
tapestry, it winds and wanders, hidden for an 
instant, maybe, but never lost. I have gath- 
ered an armful of the blossoms, and put my 
face down to them, closing my eyes, and 
dreaming that it was you — you whom I 
must ever hold apart as something too beauti- 
ful for me to touch — you, whom I can only 
love from afar. 

“ 1 have told you that I would come when 
the iris bloomed, but now, when the marsh 
is glorious with the purple banners, I dare 
not. It is not only because you are sad, 
though not for worlds would I trouble you 
now, but because I am afraid. 

‘‘Only in my wildest moments do I dare 
to hope — you were never meant for such as 
I. By day, 1 bow my soul before you in 
shame at my own unworthiness, but at night, 


i8o 


TLbc Master’s Violin 


like some flaming star which speeds" across 
the uncharted dark, you light the barren 
country of my dreams. 

“ I think sometimes that I shall never dare 
to tell you; that it must be like this, year 
after year. If you knew your lover, who is 
so bold and yet so fearful, 1 think you would 
cast him aside in scorn. So it is better for 
me to believe, though that belief has no 
foundation, — better for me to hope than 
utterly to despair. Without you, I dare not 
think what life might be. 

“ Like the marsh, the years stretch out be- 
fore me — a vast plain of which the uncer- 
tainty only is sure. They are full of strange 
pitfalls, of unsounded deeps and silences, of 
impassable barriers which I, disheartened and 
doubting, must one day meet face to face. 

“Night lies upon it, and 1 cannot see the 
way. Storm beats upon me and turns me 
from my course. The clouded day ends in 
sunset, and the crystal pools, by which 1 
thought to mark my path, become beacons 
of blood-red flame. 

“ The will o’ the wisp leads me into the 
mire, where the rushes cling tightly about 
me and keep me back. But the night wind 


UO f tlQ 


181 


blows from the east, where the dawn sleeps, 
and on the strings of the marsh grass breathes 
a little song. * Iris ! Iris ! * it sings, then all 
at once my sore heart grows strangely glad, 
for whatever may come to me, I shall have 
the memory of you. 

“Like the flags that glorify the marshes 
and spread their elfin sweetness afar, you 
shine upon the desert wastes of my life. I 
can never wholly lose you — you are there 
for alwa' s, and graven on my heart forever 
is the symbol the fleur-de-lis.” 


XIV 

Iber IRame-Jlower 


OMEHOW, the days passed. Iris ate me- 



chanically, and went about her house- 
hold duties with her former precision. On 
Wednesday evening, Doctor Brinkerhoff came, 
as usual, and Margaret’s eyes filled at the 
sight of him. 

Bent, old, and haggard, he came up the 
path, longing for his accustomed place in 
the house, and yet dreading to take it. Iris 
met him with a pitiful little smile, and he 
bowed over her hand for a moment, his 
shoulders shaking. Then he straightened 
himself, like a soldier under fire. 

“ Miss Iris,” he said, “ we are bound to- 
gether by a common grief. More than that, 
I have a trust to fulfil. She” — here he 
hesitated and then went on — “ she asked 
me if I would not try to take the place of a 
father to you, and I promised that I would.” 


f)er *name*jf lower 


183 


“ I have always felt so toward you/* an* 
swered Iris, in a low tone. 

Lynn was quite himself again, and his cheer- 
ful talk enlivened the others, almost against 
their will. There was laughter and to spare, 
yet beneath it was an undercurrent of sorrow, 
for the wound was healed only upon the 
surface. 

“ It is hard,” said the Doctor, sadly, “but 
life holds many hard things for all of us. Per- 
haps, if we lived rightly, if our faith were 
stronger, death would not rend our hearts 
as it does. It is the common lot, the uni- 
versal leveller, and soon or late it comes to 
us all. It remains to make our spiritual 
adjustment accord with the inevitable fact. 
There is so little that we can change, that it 
behooves us to confine our efforts to ourselves.” 

“Life,” replied Lynn “is the pitch of the 
orchestra, and we are the instruments.” 

Doctor Brinkerhoff nodded. “Very true. 
The discord and the broken string of the in- 
dividual instrument do not affect the whole, 
except as false notes, but I think that God, 
knowing all things, must discern the sym- 
phony, glorious with meaning, through the 
discordant fragments that we play.” 


1 84 


Ube /Raster’s liMoitn 


So the talk went on, Lynn taking the bur- 
den of it and endeavouring always to make it 
cheerful. Margaret understood and loved him 
for it, but she, too, was sad. Iris sat like a 
stone, waiting, counting off the leaden hours 
as something to be endured, and blindly be- 
lieving that rest would come. 

44 Everything,” said Margaret, after a long 
silence, 44 was as beautiful as it could be.” 

Doctor Brinkerhoff understood at once. 
44 Yes,” he sighed, 44 and I am glad. I think 
it was as she would have wished it to be, and 
I am sure she was pleased because I shielded 
her from the gaze of the curious at the end.” 
His face worked as he said it, but he took a 
pitiful pride in what he had done. Day by 
day he hugged this last service closer, because 
it was done through his own thought and his 
own understanding, and would have pleased 
her if she had known. 

44 Yes,” returned Margaret, kindly, 44 it was 
very thoughtful of you. It would never have 
occurred to me, and I know she would have 
been grateful.” 

44 Miss Iris ?” said the Doctor, inquiringly. 

The girl turned. 44 Yes ?” 

44 She — she gave me a paper for you. 


Iber *ttame=3Tower 


185 


Will you have it, or shall I read it to you?” 

“ Read it,” answered Iris, dully. 

“It is in the form of a letter. She wrote it 
one day, near the end of her illness, and gave 
it to me, to be opened after her death.” 

In the midst of a profound silence, he took 
an envelope from his pocket and broke the 
seal. 

“ * My Dear Doctor Brinkerhoff,’ ” he began, 
clearing his throat, “‘I feel that I am not 
going to get well, and so I have been think- 
ing, as I lie here, and setting my house in 
order. I have told Iris, but for fear she may 
forget, I tell you. All the papers which con- 
cern her are in a tin box in a trunk in the 
attic. She will know where to find it. 

“ ‘To her, as to an only daughter, go my 
little keepsakes — the emerald pin, my few 
pieces of real lace, my fan, and the silver 
buckles. She will understand the spirit of 
this bequest and will feel free to take what 
she likes. 

" * The house is for Margaret, and, after her, 
for Lynn, but it is to be a home for Iris, just 
as it has been, while she lives. Her income 
is to be paid regularly on the first of every 
month, during her lifetime, as is written in 


186 


Ube Master's tittoUn 


my will, which the lawyer has and which be 
will read at the proper time. 

*“ Tell my little girl that, though 1 am dead, 
I love her still; that she has given me more 
than I could ever have given her, and that she 
must be my brave girl and not grieve. Tell 
her 1 want her to be happy. 

“‘To you, I send my parting salutations. 

I have appreciated your friendship and your 
professional skill. 

“‘With assurances of my deep personal 
esteem, 

‘“Your Friend, 

“ ‘ Peace Field.' ” 

Iris broke down and left the room, weeping 
bitterly. Margaret followed her, but the girl 
pushed her aside. “No,” she whispered, 
“ go back. It is better for me to be alone.” 

“ I am sorry,” said the Doctor, breaking 
the painful hush; “perhaps 1 should have 
waited. I very much regret having given 
Miss Iris unnecessary pain.” 

“It is as well now as at any other time,” 
Margaret assured him, “but my heart bleeds 
for her.” 

The clock on the landing struck ten, and 


Der *fiame*iflower 


187 


Margaret excused herself for a moment. She 
returned with the Royal Worcester plate, 
piled with cakes, and a decanter of the port 

“I made them,” she said, in a low tone; 
4 ‘she asked me to give you the recipe.” 

“She was always thoughtful of others,” 
returned the Doctor, choking. 

He filled his glass, and from force of habit, 
offered it to an invisible friend. “To your 
— ” then he stopped. 

“To her memory,” sobbed Margaret, touch- 
ing his glass with hers. 

They drank the toast in silence, then the 
Doctor staggered to his feet. 

“I can bear no more,” he said, unsteadily; 
“it is a communion service with the dead.” 

“ Lynn,” said Margaret, after the guest had 
gone, “1 am troubled about Iris. She is 
grieving herself to death, and it is not natural 
for the young to suffer acutely for so long. 
Can you suggest anything ?” 

“ No,” answered Lynn, anxious in his turn, 
“except to get outdoors. I don’t believe 
she 's been out since Aunt Peace was 
buried.” 

“ You must take her, then.” 

“ Do you think she would go with me 


188 


TLbc /©astern Violin 


“ I don’t know, dear, but try it — try it to- 
morrow. Take her for a long walk and get 
her so tired that she will sleep. Nothing rests 
the mind like fatigue of the body.” 

“Mother,” began Lynn, after a little, “are 
we always going to stay in East Lancaster ? ” 

“I have n’t thought about it at all, Lynn. 
Are you becoming discontented ? ” 

“No — I was only looking ahead.” 

“ This is our home — Aunt Peace has given 
it to us.” 

“ It was ours anyway, was n’t it ? ” 

“ In a way, it was, but your grandfather 
left it to Aunt Peace. If he had not died 
suddenly he would have changed his will. 
Mother said he intended to, but he kept put- 
ting it off.” 

“ Do you want me to keep on studying the 
violin?” 

Margaret looked up in surprise, but Lynn 
was pacing back and forth with his hands 
clasped behind him and his head down. 

“Why not, dear?” she asked, very 
gently. 

“Well,” he sighed, “I don’t believe I ’m 
ever going to make anything of it. Of course 
1 can play — Herr Kaufmann says, if it satisfies 


Dcr flamc«3Flowec 


I89 


me to play the music as it is written, he can 
teach me that much, but he has n’t a very 
good opinion of me. I 'd rather be a first- 
class carpenter than a second-rate violinist, 
and I 'm twenty-three — it *s time I was 
choosing/' 

Margaret’s heart misgave her, but she spoke 
bravely. “ Lynn, look at me.” 

He turned, and his eyes met hers, openly 
and unashamed. 

“Tell me the truth — do you want to be an 
artist ? ” 

“ Mother, I 'd rather be an artist than any- 
thing else in the world." 

“ Then, dear, keep at it, and don't get dis- 
couraged. Somebody said once that the only 
reason for a failure was that the desire to suc- 
ceed was not strong enough.” 

Lynn laughed mirthlessly. “ If that is so,” 
he said, moodily, “ I shall not fail.” 

“No,” she answered, “you shall not fail. 
I won't let you fail,” she added, impulsively. 
“ I know you and I believe in you.” 

“ The worst of it,” Lynn went on, “would 
be to disappoint you.” 

Margaret drew his tall head down and 
rubbed her cheek against his. “You could 


Ube master’s IDtoltn 


190 

not disappoint me,” she said, serenely, “for 
all 1 ask of you is your best. Give me that, 
and I am satisfied.” 

“ You 've always had that, mother,” he re- 
turned, with a forced laugh. “When you 
strike a snag, I suppose the only thing to do 
is to drive on, so we ’ll let it go at that. I ’ll 
keep on, and do the best I can. If worst 
comes to worst, I can play in a theatre 
orchestra.” 

“Don’t!” cried Margaret; “you *11 never 
have to do that!” 

“Well,” sighed Lynn, “you can never tell 
what ’s coming, and in the meantime it ’s al- 
most twelve o’clock.” 

With the happy faculty of youth, Lynn was 
asleep almost as soon as his head touched the 
pillow. Iris lay with her eyes wide open, 
staring into the dark, inert and helpless under 
the influence of that anodyne which comes at 
the end of a hurt, simply through lack of the 
power to suffer more. The three letters un- 
der her pillow brought a certain sense of 
comfort. In the midst of the darkness which 
surrounded her, someone knew, someone un- 
derstood — loved her, and was content to wait. 

Margaret was troubled because of Lynn’s 


f>er Hame^fflower 


191 

disbeiief in himself. His sunny self-confi- 
dence was apparently put to rout by this new 
phase. Then she remembered that they had 
all passed through a time of stress, that 
Lynn, strong and self-reliant as he had been, 
must have felt it, too, and, moreover, the ar- 
tistic temperament in itself was inclined to 
various eccentricities. 

Of his future, she never for one moment 
had any doubt. It was her heart’s desire that 
Lynn should be an artist. Looking back upon 
her life and upon all that she had suffered, she 
saw this one boon as full compensation — as 
her just due. If this bone of her bone and flesh 
of her flesh might wear the laurel crown of 
the great, she would be content — would not 
begrudge the price which she had paid for it. 

She smiled ironically at the thought that, 
while credit was given to some, she had been 
compelled to pay in advance. “ It does not 
matter,” she mused, “ we must all pay, and it 
may be all the sweeter because I know that no 
further payment will be demanded.” 

She was thinking of it when she fell asleep, 
and in her dream she stood at a counter 
with a great throng of people, pushing and 
jostling. 


192 


Ube Master's littoUn 


Behind the counter was one in the form of 
a man who appeared to be an angel. His 
face was serene and calm; he seemed far 
removed from the passions which swayed 
the multitude. He conducted his business 
without hurry or fret, and all the pushing 
availed nothing. His voice was clear and 
high, and had in it a sense of finality. No 
one questioned him, though many went away 
grumbling. 

“You have come to buy wealth?” he 
asked. “We have it for sale, but the price 
of it is your peace of mind. For knowledge, 
we askihuman sympathy; if you take much 
of it, yoii lose the capacity to feel with your 
fellow men. If you take beauty, you must 
give up your right to love, and take the risk 
of an ignoble passion in its place. If you 
want fame, you must pay the price of eternal 
loneliness. For love, you must give self- 
surrender, and take the hurts of it without 
complaining. For health, you pay in self- 
denial and right living. Yes, you may take 
what you like, and the bill will be collected 
later, but there is no exchange, and you must 
buy something. Take as long as you wish to 
choose, but you must buy and you must pay.” 


tier tlame*JTower 


193 


Margaret awoke with his voice thundering 
in her ears: “You must buy and you must 
pay.” The dream was extraordinarily vivid, 
and it seemed as though someone shared it 
with her. It was difficult to believe that it 
had not actually happened. 

“I have bought,” she said to herself, “and 
I have paid. Now it only remains for me 
to enjoy Lynn’s triumph. He will not have 
to pay — his mother has paid for him.” 

At breakfast, Iris was more like herself, and 
Lynn was in good spirits. “ I dreamed all 
night,” he said, cheerily, “and one dream 
kept coming back. I was buying something 
somewhere and refusing to pay for it, and 
there was a row about it. I insisted that the 
thing was paid for — I don’t know what it 
was, but it was something I wanted.” 

“We always pay,” said Iris, sadly; “but I 
can’t help wondering what I am paying for 
now.” 

“Perhaps,” suggested Margaret, “you are 
paying in advance.” 

Iris brightened, and upon her face came 
the ghost of a smile. “That may be,” she 
answered. 

“Iris,” asked Lynn, “will you go out 


194 


Ubc Master's IDtoitn 


with me this afternoon? You haven’t been 
for a long time.” 

“ I don’t think so,” she replied, dully. “ It 
is kind of you, but I ’m not very strong just 
now.” 

“ We ’ll walk slowly,” Lynn assured her, 
“and it will do you good. Won’t you come, 
just to please me ? ” 

His voice was very tender, and Iris sighed. 
“ I ’ll see,” she said, resignedly; “ I don’t care 
what I do.” 

“At three, then,” said Lynn. “I’ll get 
through practising by that time and I ’ll be 
waiting for you.” 

At the appointed time they started, and 
Margaret waved her hand at them as they 
/vent down the path. Iris was so thin and 
fragile that it seemed as if any passing wind 
might blow her away. Lynn was very care- 
ful and considerate. 

“ Where do you want to go ?” he asked. 

“ I don’t care ; I don’t want to climb, though. 
Let ’s keep on level ground.” 

“Very well, but where ? Which way ?” 

Iris felt the stiff corner of the letter hidden in 
her gown. “ Let ’s go up the river,” she said. 
“I’ve never been there and I ’d like to go.” 


tier flame^jflower 


195 


So they followed the course of the stream, 
and the fresh air brought a faint colour into 
her cheeks. As the giant of old gained 
strength from his mother earth, Iris revived in 
the sunshine. The long period of inactivity 
demanded exertion to balance it. 

“It is lovely,” she said. “It seems good 
to be moving around again.” 

“I ’ll take you every day,” returned Lynn, 
“if you’ll only come. I want to see you 
happy again.” 

“ I shall never be as happy as 1 was,” she 
sighed. “ No one is the same after a sorrow 
like mine.” 

“I suppose not/' answered Lynn. “We 
are always changing. No one can go back 
of to-day and be the same as he was yester- 
day. I often think that old Greek philosopher 
was right when he said that the one thing 
common to all life was change.” 

“ Which one was he ? ” 

“ Heraclitus, I think. Anyhow, he was a 
clever old duck.” 

Iris smiled. “I have sometimes thought 
ducks were philosophers,” she said, “ba + it 
never occurred to me that philosophers were 
ducks.” 


196 


Ubc /^aster’s Violin 


Lynn laughed heartily, thoroughly pleased 
with himself because Iris seemed so much 
better. “We don’t want to go too far,” he 
said. “1 wouldn’t tire you for anything. 
Shall we go back ? ” 

“No — not yet. Isn’t there a marsh up 
here somewhere ? ” 

“ I should think there would be.” 

“Then let’s keep on and see if we don’t 
find it. I feel as though I were exploring a 
new country. It ’s strange that I ’ve never 
been here before, is n’t it ? ” 

“ It ’s because I was n’t here to take you, 
but you ’ll always have me now. You and I 
and mother are all going to live together. 
Won’t that be nice ?” 

“ Yes,” answered Iris, but her voice sounded 
far away and her eyes filled. 

Late afternoon flooded the earth with gold, 
and from distant fields came the drowsy hum 
and whir of the fairy folk with melodious 
wings. The birds sang cheerily, butterflies 
floated in the fragrant air, and it was difficult 
to believe that in all the world there was such 
a thing as Death. 

“I’m not going to let you go any farther,” 
said Lynn. “ You ’ll be tired.” 


tier Barne* JTower 


197 


“No, I won't, and besides, I want to see 
the marsh." 

“My dear girl, you couldn’t see it — you 
could only stand on the edge of it." 

“ Well, 1 'll stand on the edge of it, then," 
said Iris, stubbornly. “I've come this far, 
and I 'm going to see it." 

“Suppose we climb that hill yonder," sug- 
gested Lynn. “ It overlooks the marsh." 

“ That will do," returned Iris. “I’m will- 
ing to climb now, though I was n't when we 
started." 

At first, Lynn walked by her side, warning 
her to go slowly, then he took her hand to 
help her. When they reached the summit, 
he had his arm around her, and it was seme 
minutes before it occurred to him to take it 
away. 

Iris was looking at the tapestry spread out 
before them — the great marsh with the sunset 
light upon it and the swallows circling above 
it. 

“Oh,” she whispered, with her face alight, 
“ how beautiful it is! See all the purple in it 
— why, it might be violets, from up here! " 

“Yes," answered Lynn, dreamily, “it is 
your name-flower, the fleur-de-lis." Then 


198 Gbc Master’s Dfolfn 

the colour flamed in his face and he bit his 
lips. 

Quick as a flash, Iris turned upon him. 
“Did you write the letters ?” she demanded. 

Lynn’s eyes met hers clearly. “Yes,” 
he said, very tenderly. “Dear Heart, did n’t 
you know?” 


XV 

Xittle Xat>s 



P in the attic, Iris sat beside the old 


^ trunk, her lap filled with papers. Never 
had she felt so alone, so desolate as to-day. 
The rain beat upon the roof and grey swirls 
of water dashed against the pane. The old 
house rocked in the rising wind, and from 
below, like an eerie accompaniment, came the 
sound of Lynn’s violin. 

He was practising, and Iris heard him walk- 
ing back and forth, playing with mechanical 
precision. She shuddered at the sound of it, 
for, strangely enough, she was conscious of 
bitter resentment against Lynn. His hand 
had destroyed her dream and levelled it to the 
dust. In the darkness, she had leaned, in- 
sensibly, upon the writer of the letters, and 
now she knew that it was only Lynn — Lynn, 
who had no heart. 

There comes a time to most of us, whm 


200 TTbe Master's Violin 

the single prop gives way and, absolutely 
alone, we either stand or fall. In the hard 
school of life, sooner or later, one learns self- 
reliance. Iris began to perceive that, in the 
end, she could depend upon no one but herself. 

With a sigh, she turned to the papers once 
more. There was the report of the detective 
whom Aunt Peace had engaged at the be- 
ginning, voluminous, and obscured by legal 
phrases. Two or three letters, bearing upon 
the subject, were attached to it. In the bot- 
tom of the box were a wide, showy band 
of gold which, presumably, had been her 
mother’s wedding ring, and two photographs. 

One was of a man whose weakness was 
indelibly stamped upon every feature — the 
low, narrow forehead, the eyes slanting in- 
ward, the full lips, and receding chin. On 
the back of it, Aunt Peace had written: 
“Supposed to be her father.** Looking at 
it, Iris wondered how her mother could have 
cared for a man like that — weak and frankly 
sensuous. Yet there was an air of gay care- 
lessness about the picture, a sort of friendly 
camaraderie , distantly related to those genial 
ways which stamp a higher grade of man as 
“ a good fellow.’* 


ailttle labs 


201 


Over the other photograph, she lingered 
long. The first Iris Temple was pictured in 
the panoply of a stage queen. The crown 
of paste brilliants upon her head, the tawdry 
gown, elaborately trimmed with tinsel, and 
the gilded sceptre were all discredited by 
the face. Beneath its mask of artificiality was 
a woman, a very human woman, impulsive, 
eager, and loving, whose trustful eyes looked 
straight at Iris with intimate comprehension. 
Plainly, the life of the stage was not to her 
taste; she hungered, as every normal woman 
hungers, for the quiet hearthstone and the 
simple joys of home. 

In all her dreams of her mother, Iris had 
never imagined her like this, and yet she was 
not disappointed. At times, looking back 
upon her miserable childhood, she had bit- 
terly blamed her for it, but now, for the first 
time, she understood. “ Poor little mother,” 
said Iris, “you did the very best you 
could.” 

If things had been different, she and her 
mother could have had a little home of their 
own. Rebellion was hot in the girl’s heart, 
when she suddenly remembered some- 
thing Fraulein Fredrika had said long ago. 


202 


Ube Master's Violin 


“Wherever one may be, that is the best 
place. The dear God knows.” 

She folded up the papers and put them 
back in the box, with the photographs and 
the wedding ring. For the moment, she 
wondered what her real name might be, for 
Iris Temple was only a stage name. Then 
she dismissed the matter as of no importance, 
for she certainly would not care ^ bear the 
name of the man who had deserted her 
mother in her hour of need. 

She wondered why Aunt Peace had never 
given her the papers before, but, after all, 
what good could it have done ? What had 
she gained by it, even now ? In a flash of 
insight, she saw that she had been given 
a feeling of definite relationship with the 
woman in the tawdry stage trappings, who 
had loved much and suffered more — that 
though an old grave divided them, she was 
not quite motherless, not quite alone. For 
the first time since Aunt Peace was stricken 
with the fever, balm came into the girl’s sore 
heart. 

Below, Lynn played unceasingly. “ Four 
hours a day,” thought Iris. “One sixth of 
life — and for what ? ” 


Xittie Xat>£ 


203 


Lynn was asking himself the same ques- 
tion. “For what?” Ambition was strong 
within him, but Herr Kaufmann’s words had 
struck deep. “I will be an artist! ” he said 
to himself, passionately; “I will!” He worked 
feverishly at his concerto, but his mind was 
not upon it. He was thinking of Iris and of 
the unconscious scorn in her face when she 
discovered that he had written the letters. 

He put down his violin and meditated, as 
many a man in that very room had done be- 
fore him, upon the problem of the eternal 
feminine. Iris was incomprehensible. He 
knew that the letters had not displeased her; 
that, on the contrary, she had been unusually 
happy when they came. He remembered also 
that moonlight night, when, safely screened 
by the shrubbery across the street, he had 
seen her put the flower upon the gate-post 
and as swiftly take it away. He had loved 
her all the more for that quick impulse, that 
shame-faced retreat, and put the memory 
securely away in his heart, biding his time. 

“Iris,” he asked, at luncheon, “will you 
go for a walk with me this afternoon ? ” 

“ No,” she returned, shortly. 

“ Why not ? It is n’t too wet, is it ?” 


204 


Zbc toaster's IDfoUn 


“I’m going by myself. I prefer to be 
alone.” 

Lynn coloured and said nothing more, hi 
the afternoon, while he was at work, he saw 
her trip daintily down the path, lifting her 
skirts to avoid the pools of water the Summer 
shower had left. He watched her until she 
was no longer within range of his vision, 
then went back to his violin. 

Iris had no definite errand except to the post- 
office, where, as usual, there was nothing, but 
it rested her to be outdoors. It is Nature’s 
unfailing charm that she responds readily to 
every mood, and ultimately brings extremes 
to a common level of quiet cheerfulness. 

She leaned over the bridge and looked into 
the stream, where her own face was mirrored. 
She saw herself sad and old, a woman of 
mature years, still further aged by trouble. 
What had become of the happy girl of a few 
months ago ? 

The thought of Lynn recurred persistently, 
and always with repulsion. What should she 
do ? She could not wholly ignore him, year 
in and year out, and live in the same house. 
It must be nearly time for him to go away and 
leave her in peace. 


Xittle Xa&£ 


205 


Then Iris gasped, for it was Lynn’s house, 

— his and his mother’s. She was there upon 
sufferance only — a guest? No, not a guest 

— an intruder, an interloper. 

In her new trouble, she thought of Herr 
Kaufmann, always gentle, always wise. 
With Iris, action followed swiftly upon im- 
pulse, and she went rapidly up the hill. 
Fraulein Fredrika was out, but the Master 
was in the shop, so she went in at the lower 
door. 

“So,” he said, kindly, “one little lady 
comes to see the old man. It is long since 
you have come.” 

“ I have been in trouble,” faltered Iris. 

“ Yes,” returned the Master, “ I have heard. 
Mine heart has been very sorry for you.” 

“ It was lovely of you,” she went on, chok- 
ing back a sob, “to come and play for us. 
We appreciated it — Mrs. Irving and I — Doc- 
tor Brinkerhoff — and — Lynn,” she added, 
grudgingly. 

“ The Herr Irving,” said the Master, with 
interest, “ he has appreciated mine playing?” 
“ Of course — we all did.” 

“ Mine pupil progresses,” he remarked, 
enigmatically. 


206 


Zbc /Caster's IDiolfn 


“Was it,” began Iris, hesitating over the 
words, — “ was it the Cremona ? ” 

The Master looked at her sharply. “Yes, 
why not ? One gives one’s best to Death.” 

“Death demands it, and takes it,” said the 
girl. “That is why.” 

She spoke bitterly, and Herr Kaufmann put 
down the violin he was working upon. His 
heart went out to Iris, white-faced and ghostly, 
her eyes burning fiercely. He saw that her 
hands were trembling, and, moving his chair 
closer, he took them both in his. 

Little lady,” he said, “ it makes mine old 
heart ache to see you so close with sorrow. 
If it could be divided, I would take mine 
share, because these broad shoulders are used 
to one heavy burden, and a little more would 
not matter so much, but one must learn, even 
though the cross is very Hard to bear. 

“ It is most difficult, and yet some day you 
will see. You have only to look out of your 
window for one year to understand it all. 
First it is Winter, and the snow is deep upon 
the ground. All the flowers are dead, and 
there are no birds. The moon shines cold, 
and there are many storms. But, so slow 
that you can never see it, there is change. 


Xtttle Xa&s 


20 7 


Presently, the bare branches turn in their sleep 
and wake up with leaves. The birds come 
back, and all the earth is glad again. 

Then everything grows and it is all in one 
blossom. On the wide fields there is much 
grain, and all hearts are singing. Even after 
the frost, everything is glad for a little while, 
and then, very slowly, it is Winter once more. 

“ Little lady, do you not see ? There must 
always be Winter, there must always be night 
and storm and cold. It is then that the flow- 
ers rest — they cannot always be in bloom. 
But somewhere on the great world the sun is 
always shining, and, just so sure as you live, 
it will sometime shine on you. The dear 
God has made it so. There is so much sun 
and so much storm, and we must have our 
share of both. It is Winter in your heart now, 
but soon it will be Spring. You have had one 
long Summer, and there must be something 
in between. We are not different from all else 
the dear God has made. It is all in one law, 
as the Herr'Doctor will tell you. He is most 
wise, and he has helped me to understand.” 

‘•But Aunt Peace!” sobbed the girl. 
“Aunt Peace is dead, and mother, too! I 
am all alone!” 


208 


Ubc Master’s IDtoUn 


“Little lady,” said the Master, very ten- 
derly, “you must never say you are alone. 
Because you have had much love, shall you 
be a child when it is taken away ? Has it 
meant so little to you that it leaves nothing ? 
Just so strong and beautiful as it has been, 
just so much strength and beauty does it 
leave. There are many, in this world, who 
would be so glad to change places with you. 
To be dead,” he went on, bitterly, “that is 
nothing beside one living grave! It is by far 
the easier loss! ” 

He left her and went to the window, where 
he stood for a long time with his back toward 
her. Then Iris perceived her own selfishness, 
and she crept up beside him, slipping her 
cold little hand into his. “I understand,” 
she said, gently, “you have had sorrow, 
too.” 

The Master smiled, but she saw that his 
eyes were wet. “ Yes,” he sighed, “I know 
mine sorrow. We are old friends.” Then 
he stooped and kissed her, ever so softly, 
upon her forehead. It was like a benediction. 

“I think,” she said, after a little, “that I 
must go away from East Lancaster.” 

“So? And why?” 


Xittlc Xab£ 


209 


Iris knit her brows thoughtfully. “Well/* 
she explained, “I have no right here. The 
house is Mrs. Irving’s, and after her it belongs 
to Lynn. Aunt Peace said it was to be my 
home while I lived, but that was only because 
she did not want to turn me out. She was 
too kind to do that, but I do not belong 
there.” 

“The Herr Irving,” said the Master, in 
astonishment. “Does he want you to go 
away ? ” 

“No! No!” cried Iris. “Don’t mis- 
understand! They have said nothing — they 
have been lovely to me — but I can’t help 
feeling ” 

The Master nodded. “Yes, I see. Per- 
haps you will come to live with mine sister 
and me. The old house needs young faces 
and the sound of young feet. Mine house,” 
he said, with quiet dignity, “ is very large.” 

Even in her perplexity, Iris wondered why 
the little bird-house on the brink of the cliff 
always seemed a mansion to its owner. 
Quickly, he read her thought. 

“I know what you are thinking,” he con- 
tinued; “you are thinking that mine house is 
small. Three rooms upstairs and three rooms 


210 


XTbe fl&aster’s IDioUtt 


downstairs. Fredrika could sleep in mine 
room, and I could take the store closet back 
of mine shop and keep the wood for the vio- 
lins at the Herr Doctor’s. Upstairs, you could 
have one bedroom and one parlour. Fredrika 
and I would come up only to eat.” 

“Herr Kaufmann,” cried Iris, her heart 
warming to him, “it is lovely of you, but 
I can’t. Don’t you see, if I could stay any- 
where I could stay where lam?” 

It was not a clear sentence, but he grasped 
its meaning. “Yes, I see. But when I say 
mine house is large, it is not of these six 
rooms that I think. Have you not read in the 
good book that in mine Father’s house there 
are many mansions ? So ? Well, it is in 
those mansions that I live. I have put aside 
mine sorrow, and I wait till the dear God is 
pleased to take me home.” 

“To take us home,” said Iris, thoughtfully. 
“ Perhaps Aunt Peace was tired.” 

“Yes,” answered the Master, “she was 
tired. Otherwise, she would have been al- 
lowed to stay. You have not been thinking 
of her, but of yourself.” 

“ Perhaps I have,” she admitted. 

“If you go away,” he went on, “it is 


Xtttle Xa&s 


211 


better that you should study. You have one 
fine voice, and with sorrow in your heart, 
you can make uch from it. Those who 
have been made great have first suffered.” 

Iris turned upon him. “You mean that ? ” 
she asked, sharply. 

** Of course,” he returned, serenely. “ Be- 
fore you can help those who have suffered, 
you must suffer yourself. It is so written.” 

Iris sighed heavily. “ I must go,” she said, 
dully. 

“Not yet Wait” 

He went to his bedroom, and came back 
with a violin case. He opened it carefully, 
unwrapped the many thicknesses of silk, and 
took out the Cremona. “ See,” he said, with 
his face aglow, “is it not most beautiful? 
When you are sad, you can remember that 
you have seen mine Cremona.” 

“Thank you,” returned Iris, her voice 
strangely mingled with both laughter and 
tears, “I will remember.” 

When she went home, the Master looked 
after her for a moment or two, then turned 
away from the window to wipe his eyes. 
He was drawn by temperament to all who 
sorrowed, and he had loved Iris for years. 


212 


TTbe Master’s IDfolIn 


That night, she sat alone in the library, 
sheltered by the darkness. Margaret was 
reading in her own room, and Lynn was out. 
More clearly than ever, Iris saw that she must 
go away. She had no definite plan, but Herr 
Kaufmann’s suggestion seemed a good one. 

When Lynn came in, he lit the candles in 
the parlour. Iris hoped he would go upstairs 
without coming into the library, but he did 
not. She shrank back into her chair, trusting 
that he would not see her, but with unerring 
instinct he went straight to her. 

“Sweetheart,” he whispered, “are you 
here?” 

“I ’m here,” said Iris, frostily, “but that 
is n’t my name.” 

The timid little voice thrilled him with a 
great tenderness, and he quickly possessed 
himself of her hand. “Iris, darling,” he 
went on, “why do you avoid me? I have 
been miserable ever since I told you I wrote 
the letters.” 

“ It was wrong to write them,” she said. 

“Why, dear?” 

“ Because.” 

“ Did n’t you like them ? ” 

“No.” 


Xittle %a&2 


213 


“ I did n’t think you were displeased/’ He 
was too chivalrous to remind her of that 
moonlight night. 

“ It was very wrong,” she repeated, stub- 
bornly. 

“ Then forgive me.” 

“ It 's nothing to me,” she returned, un- 
moved. 

“I hoped it would be,” said Lynn, gently. 
“ Every time, I walked over to the next town 
to mail them. I knew you had n’t seen any 
of my writing, and I was sure you would n’t 
suspect me.” 

“ Nice advantage to take of a girl, was n’t 
it ?” demanded Iris, her temper rising. 

She rose and started toward the door, but 
Lynn kept her back. The starlight showed 
him her face, white and troubled. “Sweet- 
heart,” he said, “listen. Just a moment, 
dear — that isn’t much to ask, is it? If it 
was wrong to write the letters, then I ask you 
to forgive me, but every word was true. I 
love you. Iris — I love you with all my heart.” 

“ With all your heart,” she repeated, scorn- 
fully. “You have no heart! ” 

“Iris,” he said, unsteadily, “what do you 
mean ? ” 


214 


Ubc Master’s Violin 


“This,” she cried, in a passion. “You 
have no more feeling than the ground beneath 
your feet! Have n’t I seen, have n’t I known ? 
Aunt Peace died, and you did not care — you 
only thought it was unpleasant. You play 
like a machine, a mountebank. Tricks with 
the violin — tricks with words! And yet you 
dare to say you love me! ” 

“ Iris! Darling! ” cried Lynn, stung to the 
quick. “Don’t!” 

“Once for all I will have my say. To- 
morrow I go out of your house forever. I 
have no right here, no place. I am an in- 
truder, and I am going away. You will never 
see me again, never as long as you live. You, 
a machine, a clod, a trickster, a thing with- 
out a heart — you shall not insult me again! ” 
White to the lips, trembling like a leaf, Iris 
shook herself free and ran up to her room. 

Lynn drew a long, shuddering breath. 
“God!” he whispered, clenching his hands 
tightly. “God!” 


XVI 


Hfraifc of life 


HE kept her word. To Mrs. Irving she 



^ merely said that she had already tres- 
passed too long upon their hospitality, and 
that she thought it best to go away. She had 
talked with Herr Kaufmann, and he had ad- 
vised her to go to the city and have her voice 
trained. Yes, she would write, and would 
always think of them kindly. 

Lynn, who had passed the first sleepless 
night of his life, went to the train with her, 
but few words were spoken. Iris was cool, 
dignified, and cruelly formal. An immeasur- 
able distance lay between them, and one, at 
least, made no effort to lessen it. 

They had only a few minutes to wait, and, 
just as the train came in sight, Lynn bent 
over her. “Iris,” he said, unsteadily, “if 
you ever want me, will you promise me that 
you will let me know ? ” 


Ubc taster's Dio Un 


ci6 


“Yes,” she replied, with an incredulous 
laugh, “if I ever want you, I will let you 
know.” 

“ I will go to you,” said Lynn, struggling for 
his self-control, “from the very end of the 
world. Just send me the one word: ‘ Come.' 
And let me thank you now for all the happiness 
you have given me, and for the memory of you, 
which I shall have in my heart for always.” 

“You are quite welcome,” she returned, 
frigidly. “You — ” but the roar of the train 
mercifully drowned her words. 

The sun still shone, the birds did not cease 
their singing. Outwardly, the world was just 
as fair, even though Iris had gone. Lynn 
walked away blindly, no longer dull, but 
keenly alive to his hurt. 

From the crucible of Eternity, Time, the 
magician, draws the days. Some are wholly 
made of beauty ; of wide sunlit reaches and 
cool silences. Some of dreams and twilight, 
with roses breathing fragrance through the 
dusk. Some of darkness, wild and terrible, 
lighted only by a single star. Others still of 
riving lightnings and vast, reverberating thun- 
ders, while the heart, swelled to bursting, 
breaks on the reef of Pain. 


Bfrato of Xife 


ei7 

It seemed as though Lynn's heart were 
rising in an effort to escape. “ I must keep 
it down,” he thought. It was like an impris- 
oned bird, cut, bruised, and bleeding, beating 
against the walls of flesh. And yet, there 
was a hand upon it, and the iron fingers 
clutched unmercifully. 

Iris had gone, and the dream was at an 
end. Iris had gone, flouting him to the last, 
calling his love an insult. “Machine — clod — 
mountebank ” — the bitter words rang through 
his consciousness again and again. 

It might be true, part of it at least. Herr 
Kaufmann had told him, more than once, that 
he played like a machine. Clod ? Possibly. 
Mountebank? That might be, too. Trick- 
ster with the violin, trickster with words? 
Perhaps. But a thing without a heart ? Lynn 
laughed bitterly and put his hand against his 
breast to quiet the throbbing. 

No one knew — no one must ever know. 
Iris would not betray him, he was sure of 
that, but he must be on his guard lest he 
should betray himself. He must hide it, must 
keep on living, and appear to be the same. 
His mother’s keen eyes must see nothing 
amiss. Fortunately, he could be alone a great 


Ube toaster's VioUn 


tfi8 

deal — outdoors, or practising, and at night. 
He shuddered at the white night through 
which he had somehow lived, and wondered 
how many more would follow in its train. 

Suddenly, he remembered that it was his 
lesson day, and he was not prepared. Com- 
mon courtesy demanded that he should go up 
to Herr Kaufmann’s, and tell him that he did 
not feel like taking his lesson— that he had a 
headache, or something of the kind — that he 
had hurt his wrist, perhaps. 

He hoped that Fraulein Fredrika would 
come to the door, and that he might leave his 
message with her, but it was Herr Kaufmann 
who answered his ring. 

“ So,” said the Master, “you are once more 
late.” 

“No,” answered Lynn, refusing to meet 
his eyes, “I just came to tell you that I 
could n’t take my lesson to-day. I don’t 
think,” he stammered, “that I can ever take 
any more lessons.” 

“And why?” demanded the Master. 
“Come in!” 

Before he realised it, he was in the parlour, 
gay with its accustomed bright colours. One 
look at Lynn’s face had assured Herr Kauf- 


BfraiD of %itc 


219 

mann that something was wrong, and, for 
the first time, he was drawn to his pupil. 

“So,” said the Master. “Mine son, is it 
not well with you ? ” 

Lynn turned away to hide the working of 
his face. “Not very,” he answered in a low 
tone. 

“Miss Iris,” said the Master, “she will 
have gone away ?” 

It was like the tearing of a wound. “ Yes,” 
replied Lynn, almost in a whisper, “she went 
this morning.” 

“And you are sad because she has gone 
away ? I am sorry mineself. Miss Iris is one 
little lady.” 

“ Yes,” returned Lynn, clenching his hands, 
“she is.” 

Something in the boy’s eyes stirred an old 
memory, and made the Master’s heart very 
tender toward him. “Mine son,” he said 
very gently, “ if something has troubled you, 
perhaps it will give you one relief to tell me. 
Only yesterday Miss Iris was here. She was 
very sad when she came, and when she went 
away the world was more sunny, or so 1 
think.” 

Quickly surmising that Herr Kaufmann had 


220 


Ubc toaster's IDtolin 


something more than a hint of it, and more 
eager for sympathy than he realised, Lynn 
stammered out the story, choking at the end 
of it. 

There was a long silence, in which the 
Master went back twenty-five years. Lynn’s 
eyes, so full of trouble, were they not like 
another’s, long ago ? The organ-tone of the 
thunder once more reverberated through the 
forest, where the great boughs arched like 
the nave of a cathedral, and the dead leaves 
scurried in fright before the rising wind. 

“That is all,” said the boy, his face white 
to the lips. “ It is not much, but it is a great 
deal to me.” 

“So,” said the Master, scornfully, “you 
are to be an artist and you are afraid of life ! 
You are summoned to the ranks of the great 
and you shrink from the signal — cover your 
ears, that you shall not hear the trumpet call! 
This, when you should be on your knees, 
thanking the good God that at last He has 
taught you pain!” 

Lynn’s face was pitiful, and yet he listened 
eagerly. 

“There is no half-way point,” the Master 
was saying; “if you take it, you must pay. 


Sfrato of Xife 


221 


Nothing in this world is free but the sun and 
the fresh air. You must buy shelter, food, 
clothing, with the work of your hands and 
brain. If someone else gives it to you, it is 
not yours — you are one parasite. You must 
earn it all. 

“You think you can take all, and give 
nothing ? It is not so. For six, eight years 
now, you study the violin. You learn the 
scales, the technique, the good wrist, and 
nothing else. I teach you all I can, but it 
must come from yourself, not me. I can only 
guide — tell you when you have made one 
mistake. 

“What is it that the art is for? Is it for 
one great assembly of people to pay the high 
price for admission? ‘See/ they say, ‘this 
young man, what good tone he has, what 
bowing, what fine wrist! How smooth he 
plays his concerto! When it is marked fortis- 
simo, see how he plays fortissimo ! It is most 
skilful! ’ Is the art for that ? No! 

“ It is for everyone in the world who has 
known trouble to be lifted up and made 
strong. They care nothing for the means, 
only for the end. They have no eyes for the 
fine bowing, the good wrist — what shall 


222 


Ube Master's littoltn 


they know of technique ? And yet you must 
have the technique, else you cannot give the 
message. 

“Everyone that hears has had his own sor- 
row. None of them are new ones, they are 
all old, and so few that one person can suffer 
all. It is for you to take that, to know the 
hurt heart and the rebellious soul, so that you 
can comfort, lift up, and make noble with 
your art. 

“ And you — you cry out when you should 
be glad. Miss Iris does not love you, and 
beyond that you do not see. Suppose one 
thousand people were before you, and all had 
loved someone who did not care for them. 
Could you make it easier if you knew nothing 
of it by yourself? 

“ Listen. On a hill in Italy there was once 
a tree. It was a seed at the beginning, a seed 
you could hold with the ends of your fingers, 
so. It was buried in the ground, covered up 
with earth like something that had died. Do 
you think the seed liked that ? 

“ But is it afraid, when its heart is swelling ? 
No! It breaks through, with the great hurt. 
Still there is earth around it, still it is buried, 
but yet it aspires. One day it comes to the 


Bfrato o t %ifc 


223 


surface of the ground, and once more it breaks 
through, with pain. 

“ But the sun is bright and warm, and the 
seed grows. Careless feet trample upon it — 
there is yet one more hurt. But it straightens, 
waits through the long nights for the blessed 
sun, and so on, until it is so high as one bush. 

“ Constantly, there is growing, one aspira- 
tion upward. Bark comes and the tree swells 
outward, always with pain. Someone cuts 
off all the lower branches, and the tree 
bleeds, yet keeps on. Other branches come 
thick about it; there is one struggle, but 
through the dense growth the tree climbs, 
always upward. In the sun above the thick 
shade, it can laugh at the ache and the thorns, 
but it does not forget. 

“ And so, upward, always upward, till it is 
lifted high above its fellows. Birds come 
there to sing, to build their nests, to rear 
their young, to mourn when one little bird 
falls out from the nest and is made dead. 

“ The sun shines fiercely, and it nearly dies 
in the heat. The storm comes and it is 
shrouded in ice — made almost to die with 
the cold. The wild winds rock it and tear 
off the branches, making it bleed — there 


224 


XTbe fl&aster’s Violin 


must always be pain. The thunders play 
over its head, the lightnings burn it, and yet 
its heart lives on. The rains beat upon it like 
one river, and still it grows. 

“ The years go by and each one brings new 
hurt, but the tree is made hard and strong. 
One day there comes a man to look at it, all 
the straight fine length, the smooth trunk. 
‘ It will do/ he says, and with his axe he 
chops it down. Do you think it does not 
hurt the tree ? After the long years of fighting, 
to be cut like that ? 

“ Then it falls, crashing heavy through the 
branches to the ground. See, there must al- 
ways be pain, even at the end. Then more 
cutting, more bleeding, more heat, more cold. 
Fine tools — steel knives that tear and split 
the fibres apart. Do you think it does not 
hurt? More sun, more cold, still more cut- 
ting, tearing, and throwing aside. Then, one 
day, it is finished, and there is mine Cremona 
— all the strength, all the beauty, all the pain, 
made into mine violin! 

“ But the end is not yet. God is working 
with me and mine as well as with mine in- 
strument. As yet, I do not know that it is 
for me — it comes to me through pain. 


Bfraib of Xtfe 


225 


“One old gentleman, one of the first to 
travel abroad from this country for pleasure, 
he goes to Italy, he finds it in the hands of 
one ignorant drunkard, and he buys it for 
little. He brings it home, but he cannot play, 
and no one else can play ; he does not know 
its value, but it pleases him and he takes it. 
For long years, it stays in one attic, with the 
dust and the cobwebs, kicked aside by care- 
less feet. 

“ Meanwhile, I know one lovely young 
lady. I meet her by chance, and we like 
each other, oh, so muchl ‘Franz,* she says 
to me, ‘you live on one hill in West Lancaster, 
and mine mother, she would never let me 
speak with you, so 1 must see you some- 
times, quite by accident, elsewhere. On 
pleasant days, I often go to walk in the 
woods. Mine mother likes me to be out- 
doors.* So, many times, we meet and we 
talk of strange things. Each day we love 
each other more, and all the time her mother 
does not suspect. We plan to go away to- 
gether and never let anyone know until we 
are married and it is too late, but first I must 
find work. 

“ ‘Franz,* she says to me one day, ‘up in 


226 


Ube /Raster's WfoHn 


mine attic there is one old violin, which I 
think must be valuable. Mine mother is 
away with a friend and the nouse is by itself, 
Will you not come up to see?' 

“ So we go, and the house is very quiet 
No one is there. We go like two thieves to 
the attic, laughing as though we were child- 
ren once more. Presently we find the vio- 
lin, and I see that it is one Cremona, very old, 
very fine, but with no strings. 1 fit on some 
strings that I have in mine pocket, but there 
is no bow and I can only play pizzicato. I 
need to hear the tone but one moment to know 
what it is that I have. * It is most wonder- 
ful,’ I say, and then the door opens and one 
very angry lady stands there. 

“She tells me that I shall never come into 
that house again, that I must go right away, 
that I have no — what do you say ? — no social 
place, and that I am not to speak with her 
daughter. To her she says: M will attend 
to you very soon.' We creep down the stairs 
together and mine Beloved whispers: ‘Every 
day at four, at the old place, until I come.’ 
I understand and I go away, but mine heart is 
very troubled for her. 

“ For long days 1 wait, and every day, at 


Sfrato of Xffc 


227 


four, I am at the meeting-place in the wood, 
but no one comes, and there is no message, 
no word. All the time I feel as you feel now 
because Miss Iris has gone away and does not 
care. I wait and wait, but I can get no news, 
and I fear to go to the house because I shall 
perhaps harm mine Beloved, and she has told 
me what to do. Every day I am there, even 
in the rain, waiting. 

“At last she comes, with the violin under 
her arm, wrapped in her coat. * 1 have only 
one minute/ she cries; ‘they are going to 
take me away, and we can never see each 
other again. So I give you this. You must 
keep it, and when you are sad it will tell you 
how much I love you, how much I shall al- 
ways love you. You will not forget me/ she 
says. There is just one instant more to- 
gether, with the thunders and the lightnings 
all around us, then I am alone, except for 
mine violin. 

“ Do you not see ? There must always be 
pain. The dear God has made mine instru- 
ment, and in the same way He has made me, 
with the cutting and the bruises and the long 
night. I, too, have known the storm and all 
the fury of the winds and rain. Like the 


228 


Zbc flDaster’s IDtolfn 


tree, I have aspired, I have grown upward, I 
have done the best I could. Otherwise, I 
should not be fitted to play on mine Cremona 
— I would not deserve to touch it, and so, in 
a way, I am glad. 

“ I have had mine fame,” he went on. 
“ With the sorrow in mine heart, I have stud- 
ied and worked until I have made mineself 
one great artist. If you do not believe, I can 
show you the papers, where much has been 
written of me and mine violin. Women have 
cried when I have played, and have thrown 
their red roses to me. I had the technique, 
and when the hurt broke open mine heart, I 
was immediately one artist. I understood, I 
could play, I could lift up all who suffered, 
because I had known suffering mineself. 

" Mine son, do you not understand ? You 
can give only what you have. If one sorrow 
is in your heart, if you have learned the beauty 
and the nobility of it, you can teach others 
the same thing. You can show them how to 
rise above it, like the tree that had one long 
lifetime of hurt, and ended in mine Cremona 
to help all who hear. The one who plays 
the instrument must be made in the same 
way, of the same influences — the cutting, the 


Bfrato of 2Life 


229 


night, and the cold. Of softness nothing 
good ever comes, for one must always 
fight. 

“Nothing in this whole world is free but 
the sun and the fresh air and the water to 
drink. We must pay the fair price for all 
else. I have had mine fame and I have paid 
mine price, but the heights are lonely, and 
sometimes I think it would be better to walk 
in the valley with a woman’s hand in mine. 
But at the first, before I knew, I chose. I 
said: ‘I will be an artist,’ and so I am, but 
I have paid, oh, mine son, I have paid and I 
am still paying! There is no end! ” 

The Master’s face was grey and haggard, 
but his eyes burned. Lynn saw what it had 
cost him to open this secret chamber — to lay 
bare this old wound. “And I,” he said 
huskily, “ I touched the Cremona! ” 

“Yes,” said the Master, sadly, “on that 
first day, you lifted up mine Cremona, and 
until to-day I have never forgiven. There 
has been resentment in mine old heart for 
you, though I have tried to put it aside. Her 
hands were last upon it — hers and mine. 
When I touched it, it was the place where 
her white fingers rested, where many a time 


TTbe toaster's Violin 


230 

I put mine kiss to ease mine heart. And you, 
you took that away from me! ” 

" If I had only known,” murmured Lynn. 

“ But you did not know,” said the Master, 
kindly; “and to-day I have forgiven.” 

“ Thank you,” returned Lynn, with a lump 
in his throat; “ it is much to give.” 

“Sometimes,” sighed the Master, “when 
1 have been discouraged, I have been very 
hungry for someone to understand me — some- 
one to laugh, to touch mine tired eyes, to 
make me forget with her little sweet ways. 
In mine fancy, I have seen it all, and more. 

“ When I have gone down the hill to the 
post-office, where there has never been the 
letter from her, and the little children have 
run to me, holding out their arms that I 
should take them up, I have felt that the 
price was too high that I have paid. But 
all the time I have understood that on the 
heights one must go alone, for a time at 
least, with the thunders and the lightnings 
and the storms. If I had been given one 
son, I think he would have been like you, 
one fine tall young fellow with the honest 
face and the laughing ways, but you have 
been shielded, and I should not have done 


Bfrafo of Xffe 


*31 


so. I should have let you grow from the start 
and learn all things so soon as you could.” 

“ 1 never knew my father,” Lynn said, 
deeply moved, “but if I could choose, 1 
would choose you.” 

“So,” said the Master, his eyes filling. 
Then their hands met in a long clasp of un- 
derstanding. 

“Already I am the richer for it,” Lynn 
went on, after a little. “ I know now what 
I did not know before.” 

The boy’s face was still white, but the look 
of hopeless despair was merged into some- 
thing which foreshadowed ultimate accept- 
ance. The Master still held his hand. 

“ If you are to be an artist,” he said, once 
more, “you must not be afraid of life. You 
must welcome it to its utmost cross. You 
must take the cold, the heat, the poverty, 
the hunger, the burning way through the 
desert, the snow-clad steeps, the keen hurt, 
and the happiness — it is all one, for it gives 
you knowledge. You must know all the 
pain of the world, face to face, if you are to 
help those who bear it. Keen feelings give 
you the great hurt, but also, in payment, the 
great joy. The balance swings true. The 


232 


Ube flDaster 9 s IDfolin 


Herr Doctor has told me this. He is most 
wise; he understands/* 

" I see/* answered Lynn. “ I will never 
be afraid again/* 

“That,** said the Master, with his face 
alight, — “ that is mine son’s true courage. 
Take it with your head up, your teeth shut, 
and your heart always believing. Fear no- 
thing, and much will be given back to you, — 
is it not so ? Let life do all it can — you will 
never be crushed unless you are willing that 
it should be so. Defeat comes only to those 
who invite it.” 

“I see,” said Lynn, again; “with all my 
heart I thank you.** 

He went away soon afterward, insensibly 
comforted. Overnight, he had come into his 
heritage of pain, had lost the girl he loved, 
and in swift restitution found comradeship 
with the Master. 

That stately figure lingered long before his 
vision, grey and rugged, yet with a certain 
graciousness — simple, kindly, and yet aus- 
tere ; one who had accepted his sorrow, and, 
by some alchemy of the spirit, transmuted it 
into universal compassion, to speak, through 
the Cremona, to all who could understand. 


XVII 


“"toe loves Iber Still” 


HEN Doctor Brinkerhoflf came on Wed- 



V V nesday evening, he was surprised to 
discover that Iris had gone away. “ It was 
sudden, was it not ? ” he asked. 

“It seemed so to us,” returned Margaret. 
“ We knew nothing of it until the morning 
she started. She had probably been planning 
it for a long time, though she did not take us 
into her confidence until the last minute.” 

Lynn sat with his face turned away from 
his mother. “ Did you, perhaps, suspect that 
she was going?” the Doctor directly in- 
quired of Lynn. 

He hesitated for the barest perceptible inter- 
val before he spoke. “ She told us at the 
breakfast table,” he answered. “Iris is re- 
plete with surprises.” 

“But before that,” continued the Doctor, 
“did you have no suspicion ?” 


234 


Ube fl&aster’s liMolin 


Lynn laughed shortly. “How should 1 
suspect?” he parried. “I know nothing of 
the ways of women.” 

“Women,” observed the Doctor, with an 
air of knowledge, women are inscrutable. 
For instance, I cannot understand why Miss 
Iris did not come to say ‘good-bye* to me. I 
am her foster-father, and it would have been 
natural.” 

“Good-byes are painful,” said Margaret. 

“We Germans do not say ‘good-bye/ 
but only ‘auf wiedersehen/ Perhaps we 
shall see her again, perhaps not. No one 
knows.” 

“ Fraulein Fredrika does not say * auf wie- 
dersehen/” put in Lynn, anxious to turn the 
trend of the conversation. 

“ No,” responded the Doctor, with a smile. 
“She says : ‘ You will come once again, yes ? 
It would be most kind/ ” 

He imitated the tone and manner so exactly 
that Lynn laughed, but it was a hollow laugh, 
without mirth in it. “Do not misunderstand 
me,” said the Doctor, quickly ; “ it was not 
my intention to ridicule the Fraulein. She is 
a most estimable woman. Do you perhaps 
know her ? ” he asked of Margaret. 


“t>e %o vcs Der 5tW” 


235 


“I have not that pleasure,” she replied. 

“She was not here when I first came,” the 
Doctor went on, “ but Herr Kaufmann sent 
for her soon afterward. They are devoted to 
each other, and yet so unlike. You would 
have laughed to see Franz at work at his 
housekeeping, before she came.” 

A shadow crossed Margaret’s face. 

“ I have often wondered,” she said, clear- 
ing her throat, “ why men are not taught 
domestic tasks as well as women. It pre- 
supposes that they are never to be without 
the inevitable woman, yet many of them often 
are. A woman is trained to it in the smallest 
details, even though she has reason to suppose 
that she will always have servants to do it for 
her. Then why not a man ?” 

“A good idea, mother,” remarked Lynn. 
“ To-morrow 1 shall take my first lesson in 
keeping house.” 

“You?” she said fondly; “you? Why, 
Lynn ! Lacking the others, you ’ll always 
have me to do it for you.” 

“That,” replied the Doctor, triumphantly, 
“disproves your own theory. If you are in 
earnest, begin on the morrow to instruct Mr. 
Irving.” 


236 


Ube /Easter's Wolfit 


Margaret flushed, perceiving her own 
inconsistency. 

“I could be of assistance, possibly,” he 
continued, “fer in the difficult school of 
experience I have learned many things. I 
have often taken professional pride in closing 
an aperture in my clothing with neat stitches, 
and the knowledge thus gained has helped me 
in my surgery. All things in this world fit in 
together.” 

“It is fortunate if they do,” she answered. 
“ My own scheme of things has been very 
much disarranged.” 

“Yet, as Fraulein Fredrika would say, ‘the 
dear God knows/ Life is like one of those 
puzzles that come in a box. It is full of queer 
pieces which seemingly bear no relation to 
one another, and yet there is a way of putting 
it together into a perfect whole. Sometimes 
we make a mistake at the beginning and dis- 
card pieces for which we think there is no possi- 
ble use. It is only at the end that we see 
we have made a mistake and put aside some- 
thing of much importance, but it is always too 
late to go back — the pieces are gone. 

“ In my own life, I lost but one — still, it was 
the keystone of the whole. When I came from 


“fce £ot>es Iber Star* 


237 


Germany, I should have brought letters from 
those in high places there to those in high 
places here. It could easily have been done. 
I should have had this behind me when I came 
to East Lancaster, and I should not have made 
the mistake of settling first on the hill. Then 

” The Doctor ceased abruptly, and 

sighed. 

“ This country is supposed to be very demo- 
cratic,” said Lynn, chiefly because he could 
think of nothing else to say. 

“Yes,” replied the Doctor, “it is in your 
laws that all men are free and equal, but it is 
not so. The older civilisations have found 
there is class, and so you will find it here. 
At first, when everything is chaotic, all parti- 
cles may seem alike, but in time there is an 
inevitable readjustment.” 

“ We are getting very serious,” said Mar- 
garet 

“ It is an important subject,” responded the 
Doctor, with dignity. “I have often dis- 
cussed it with my friend, Herr Kaufmann. 
He is a very fine friend to have.” 

“Yes,” said Lynn, “he is. It is only lately 
that I have learned to appreciate him.” 

“One must grow to understand him,” 


238 


ZEbe /©aster’s Vfolfn 


mused the Doctor. “At first, I did not. ! 
thought him rough, queer, and full of sarcasm. 
But afterward, I saw that his harshness was 
only a mask — the bark, if I may say so. Be- 
neath it, he has a heart of gold.” 

“People,” began Margaret, avoiding the 
topic, "always seek their own level, just as 
water does. That is why there is class.” 

“But for a long time, they do not find it,” 
objected the Doctor. “Miss Iris, for instance. 
Her people were of the common sort, and 
those with whom she lived afterward were 
worse still. She ” — by the unconscious rev- 
erence in his voice, they knew whom he 
meant — “she taught her all the fineness she 
has, and that is much. It is an argument for 
environment, rather than heredity.” 

Lynn left the room abruptly, unable to bear 
the talk of Iris. 

“I wish,” said the Doctor, at length, “I 
wish you knew Herr Kaufmann. Would you 
like it if I should bring him to call ?” 

“No! ” cried Margaret. “ It is too soon,” 
she added, desperately. “Too soon after ” 

The Doctor nodded. “I understand,” he 
said. “It was a mistake on my part, for 
which you must pardon me. I only thought 


44 De Xot>es Der Still" 


239 


you might be a help to each other. Franz, 
too, has sorrowed/* 

“ Has he ?” asked Margaret, her lips barely 
moving. 

“ Yes/* the Doctor went on, half to himself, 
“it was an unhappy love affair. The young 
lady’s mother parted them because he lived in 
West Lancaster, though he, too, might have 
had letters from high places in Germany. He 
and I made the same mistake.” 

“Her mother,” repeated Margaret, almost 
in a whisper. 

“Yes, the young lady herself cared.” 

“And he,” she breathed, leaning eagerly 
forward, her body tense, — “does he love her 
still?” 

“He loves her still,” returned the Doctor, 
promptly, “and even more than then.” 

“Ah— h!” 

The Doctor roused himself. “What have 
1 done! ” he cried, in genuine distress. “I have 
violated my friend’s confidence, unthinking! 
My friend, for whom I would make any sacri- 
fice — I have betrayed him! ” 

“No,” replied Margaret, with a great effort 
at self-control. “You have not told me her 


name. 


240 


XTbe Master's IDtoUn 


“It is because I do not know it,” said the 
Doctor, ruefully. “If I had known, I should 
have bleated it out, fool that I am! ” 

“ Please do not be troubled — you have done 
no harm. Herr Kaufmann and I are practically 
strangers.” 

“That is so,” replied the Doctor, evidently 
reassured; “and I did not mean it. It is not 
the same thing as if I had done it purposely.” 

“ Not at all the same thing.” 

At times, we put something aside in mem- 
ory to be meditated upon later. The mind 
registers the exact words, the train of circum- 
stances that caused their utterance, all the 
swift interplay of opposing thought, and, for 
the time being, forgets. Hours afterward, in 
solitude, it is recalled; studied from every 
point of view, searched, analysed, questioned, 
until it is made to yield up its hidden mean- 
ing. It was thus that Margaret put away, 
those four words: “ He loves her still.” 

They are pathetic, these tiny treasure-houses 
of Memory, where oftentimes the jewel, so 
jealously guarded, by the clear light of in- 
trospection is seen to be only paste. One 
seizes hungrily at the impulse that caused the 
hiding, thinking that there must be some cer- 


“f>e %ovcq iber Still” 


241 

tain worth behind the deception. But after- 
ward, painfully sure, one locks the door of 
the treasure-chamber in self-pity, and steals 
away, as from a casket that enshrines the 
dead. 

They talked of other things, and at half-past 
ten the Doctor went home, leaving a fare- 
well message for Lynn, and begging that his 
kind remembrances be sent to Iris, when she 
should write. 

“Thank you/' said Mrs. Irving. “I shall 
surely tell her, and she will be glad.” 

The door closed, and almost immediately 
Lynn came in from the library, rubbing his 
eyes. “ I think I ’ve been asleep,” he said. 

“ It was rude, dear,” returned Margaret, in 
gentle rebuke. “It is ill-bred to leave a 
guest.” 

“ I suppose it is, but I did not intend to be 
gone so long.” 

The house seemed singularly desolate, 
filled, as it was, with ghostly shadows. 
Through the rooms moved the memory of 
Iris, and of that gentle mistress who slept in 
the churchyard, who had permeated every 
nook and corner of it with the sweetness of 
her personality. There was something in the 


XTbe /©aster’s DtoUrt 


242 

air, as though music had just ceased — the 
wraith of long-gone laughter, the fall of long- 
shed tears. 

4 4 1 miss Iris,” said Margaret, dreamily. 
“ She was like a daughter to me.” 

Taken off his guard, Lynn’s conscious face 
instantly betrayed him. 

“Lynn,” said Margaret, suddenly, “did 
you have anything to do with her going 
away ? ” 

The answer was scarcely audible. * * Yes. ” 

Margaret never forced a confidence, but 
after a pause she said very gently: “ Dear, is 
there anything you want to tell me ? ” 

“It’s nothing,” said Lynn, roughly. He 
rose and walked around the room nervously. 
“It’s nothing,” he repeated, with assumed 
carelessness. “I — I asked her to marry me, 
and she would n’t. That ’s all. It ’s nothing.” 

Margaret’s first impulse was to smile. This 
child, to be talking of marriage — then her 
heart leaped, for Lynn was twenty-three; 
older than she had been when the star rose 
upon her horizon and then set forever. 

Then came a momentary awkwardness. 
Childish though the trouble was, she pitied 
Lynn, and regretted that she could not shield 


“Ibe 2Lot>es Iber Still 9 * 


243 


him from it as she had shielded him from all 
else in his life. 

Then resentment against Iris. What was 
she, a nameless outcast, to scorn the offered 
distinction ? Any woman in the world might 
be proud to become Lynn’s wife. 

Then, smiling at her own folly, Margaret 
went to him, dominated solely by gratitude. 
Not knowing what else to do, she drew his 
tall head down to kiss him, but Lynn swerved 
aside, and with his face against the softness 
of his mother’s hair, wiped away a boyish 
tear. 

“Lynn,” she said, tenderly, “you are very 
young.” 

“ How old were you when you married, 
mother ?” 

“Twenty-one.” 

“ How old was father?” 

“ Twenty-three.” 

“ Then,” persisted Lynn, with remorseless 
logic, “lam not too young, and neither is 
Iris — only she doesn’t care.” 

“She may care, son.” 

“ No, she won’t. She despises me." 

“ And why ? ” 

“ She said I had no heart. * 


244 


Ubc /©aster’s liMolin 


“The idea ! 99 

“Maybe I didn't have then, but I’n? sure 
I have now.” 

He walked back and forth restlessly. Mar- 
garet knew that the griefs of youth are cruelly 
keen, because they come well in the lead of 
the strength to bear them. She was about to 
offer the usual threadbare consolation, “You 
will forget in time,” when she remembered 
the stock of which Lynn came. 

His mother, who had carried a secret 
wound for more than twenty-five years, who 
was she, to talk about forgetting, and, of all 
others, to her son ? 

Gratitude was still dominant, though in her 
heart of hearts she knew that she was selfish. 
Lynn felt the lack of sympathy, and became 
conscious, for the first time in his life, that 
her tenderness had a limit. 

“Mother,” he said, suddenly, “did you 
love father ? ” 

“ Why do you ask, son ? ” 

“Because I want to know.” 

“ I respected him highly,” said Margaret, at 
length. “ He was a good man, Lynn.” 

“ You have answered,” he returned. “You 
don’t know — you don’t understand.” 


“ f>e %ovcq Iber Still” 


245 


“ But I do understand,” she flashed. 

“ You can’t, if you did n’t love father.” 

“1 — I cared for someone else,” said Mar- 
garet, thickly, unwilling to be convicted of 
shallowness. 

Lynn looked at her quickly. “And you 
still care ? ” 

Margaret bowed her head. “Yes,” she 
whispered, “ 1 still care! ” 

“Mother!” he cried. In an instant, his 
arms were around her and she was sobbing 
on his shoulder. “Mother,” he pleaded, 
“forgive me! To think I never knew! ” 

They had a long talk then, intimate and 
searching. “You have borne it bravely,” 
he said. “No one has ever dreamed of it, 
I am sure. The Master told me, the other 
day, that I must not be afraid of life. He 
said that everything, even our blessings, came 
to us through pain.” 

“ I would not say everything,” temporised 
Margaret, “but it is true that much comes 
that way. We know happiness only by 
contrast.” 

“Happiness and misery, light and dark, 
sunshine and storm, life and death,” mused 
Lynn. “Yes, it is by contrast, but, as the 


246 


Ube Master’s Violin 


Master says, ‘the balance swings true/ I 
wish you knew him, mother; he has helped 
me. I never knew my father, so it is not 
wrong for me to say that I wish he might 
have been my father.” 

Margaret grew as cold as ice, and her 
senses reeled, then flame swept her from 
head to foot. “ Come,” she said, not know- 
ing her own voice, “it is late.” 

Long afterward, in the solitude of her room, 
she took the precious thought from its hid- 
ing-place, and found it purest gold. It was 
as though all the bitterness in her heart, 
growing upward, through the years, had 
flowered overnight into a perfect rose. 


XVIII 

Xjmn Comes Into Ibis ©wn 


T the post-office there was a letter tor 



** Mrs. Irving. Lynn took it, with a lump 
rising in his throat, for, though he had never 
seen her handwriting, he knew, through a 
sixth sense, that it was from Iris. Evidently, 
it was a brief communication, for the en- 
velope contained not more than a single 
sheet. The straight, precise slope of the 
address had an old-fashioned air. It was 
very different from the modern angular hand 
which demands a whole line for two or 
three words. 

In some way, it brought her nearer to him, 
and in the shadow of the maple, just outside 
the house, he kissed the superscription be- 
fore he took it in. 

He waited, consciously, while his mother 
read it. It was little more than a note, say- 
ing that she was established in a hall bed- 


248 


Ube /©aster's tMotin 


room in a city boarding-house, where she had 
the use of the piano in the parlour, and that 
she was taking two lessons a week and prac- 
tising a great deal. She gave the name of 
her teacher, said she was well, and sent kind 
remembrances to all who might inquire for 
her. 

With a woman’s insight, Margaret read 
heartache between the lines. She knew that 
the note was brief because Iris did not dare 
to trust herself to write more. There was 
no mention of Lynn, but it was not because 
she had forgotten him. 

Margaret gave the letter to Lynn, then 
turned away, that she might not see his face. 
“I shall write this afternoon,” she said. 
“ Shall I send any message for you ? ” 

“ No,” returned Lynn, with a short, bitter 
laugh, “ I have no message to send.” 

Her heart ached in sympathy, for by her 
own sorrow she measured the depth of his. 
She knew that the elasticity of youth would 
fail here — that Lynn was not of those who 
forget. 

“ Son,” she said, gently, “ I wish I might 
bear it for you.” 

“I wouldn’t let you, mother, even if you 


Xpnn Comes Unto Ibis ©wn 249 


could. You have had enough as it is. Herr 
Kaufmann says you have always shielded me 
and that it was a mistake.” 

Had it been a mistake ? Margaret thought 
it over after Lynn went away. She had 
shielded him — that was true. He had never 

9 

learned by painful experience anything from 
which she had the power to save him. If 
his father had lived 

For the first time, Margaret thought of her 
freedom as a doubtful blessing. Then, once 
more, she took the jewelled thought from its 
hiding-place in her inmost heart. There was 
no hint of alloy there — it was radiant with 
its own unspeakable beauty. 

Lynn went to the post-office to mail the 
letter. East Lancaster considered post-boxes 
modern innovations which were reckless and 
unjustifiable. Suppose a stranger should be 
passing through East Lancaster, break open 
a post-box, and feloniously extract a private 
letter ? What if the box should blow away ? 
When a letter was placed in the hands of 
the accredited representative of the Govern- 
ment, one might be sure that it was safe, but 
not otherwise. 

Doctor Brinkerhoff was talking with the 


250 


Ube Master's Wolfit 


postmaster, but he left him to speak to Lynn. 
“Miss Iris,” he began, eagerly, “you have 
perhaps heard from her ? ” 

“Yes,” answered Lynn, dully, fingering 
the letter. 

“Is she quite well?” 

Briefly, Lynn told him what Iris had written. 

“It was kind to send remembrances to 
all who might inquire,” mused the Doctor. 
“ That is like my foster-daughter; she is al- 
ways thinking of others. She knew that I 
would be the first to ask. If you will give 
me the address, it will be a pleasure to me to 
write to her. She must be quite lonely where 
she is.” 

Lynn told him. Her letter was at home, but 
every syllable of it, even the prosaic address, 
was written in letters of fire upon his brain. 

“Thank you,” said the Doctor, as he took 
it down in his memorandum book; “I shall 
write to-night. Shall I give her any word 
from you ? ” 

“No!” cried Lynn. 

“ Ah,” laughed the Doctor, “ I understand. 
You write yourself. Well, 1 will tell her a 
letter is coming. Good afternoon ! ” 

He moved away, leaving Lynn cold from 


Xsnn Comes ITnto Ibis Own 251 


head to foot. He was tempted to call the 
Doctor back, to ask him not to mention his 
name to Iris, then he reflected that an ex- 
planation would be necessary. In any event, 
Iris would understand. She would know 
that he did not intend to write — that he had 
sent no message. 

But, three days later, it was fated that Iris 
should tremble at the sight of Lynn’s name 
in a letter from East Lancaster. “I think he 
will write soon,” Doctor Brinkerhoff had said. 
“Mr. Irving is a very fine gentleman and I 
have deep respect for him.” 

“ Write to me ! ” repeated Iris. “He would 
not dare! Why should he write to me?” 
She put the letter aside and read over those 
three anonymous communications of Lynn’s, 
making a vain effort to associate them with 
his personality. 

Meanwhile, Lynn was learning endurance. 
He slept but fitfully, awaking always with 
the sense of choking and of a hand pulling at 
his heart. He saw Iris everywhere. There 
was no room in the house, except his own, 
that was not full of her and of the faint, 
elusive perfume which seemed a part of her. 
Sometimes those ghostly images haunted him 


252 Zbc Master's IDioltn 

until he could bear no more. Margaret often 
saw him throw down the book he was read- 
ing and dash outdoors. For an hour, per- 
haps, he had not turned a page, and the book 
was a flimsy pretence at best. 

He had not touched his violin since Iris 
went away. More than anything else, it 
spoke to him of her. “Trickster with the 
violin" seemed written upon it for all the 
world to read. Dimly, he knew that work 
was the only panacea for heartache, but he 
could not bring himself to go on with his 
mechanical practising. 

Summer was drawing to its close. Already 
there was a single scarlet bough in the maple 
at the gate, where the frost had set its signal 
and its promise of return. Many of the birds 
had gone, and fairy craft of winged seeds, the 
sport of every wind, drifted aimlessly about 
in search of some final harbour. 

Strangely, Lynn rather avoided his mother. 
He felt her sympathy, her comprehension, and 
yet he shrank from her. She was gentle and 
patient, responded readily to his every mood, 
and rarely offered a caress, yet he continually 
shrank back within himself. 

He had made no friends in East Lancaster, 


%ynn Comes Unto fc>is ©wn 253 


though he knew one or two young men near 
his own age, but he kept so far aloof from 
them that they had long since ceased to seek 
him out He kept away from Doctor Brinker- 
hoff, fearing talk of Iris, or some new compli- 
cation, and even the postmaster’s kindly sallies 
fell upon deaf ears. He, too, missed Iris, and 
often inquired for her, though he could not 
have failed to note that no letters came for 
Lynn. 

Almost in the first of the hurt, when it 
seemed the hardest to bear, he had wondered 
whether it could be any worse if Iris were 
dead. All at once, he knew that it would 
be; that the cold hand and the quiet heart 
were the supreme anguish of loving, because 
there was no longer any possibility of change. 
Swiftly, he understood how Iris had felt when 
Aunt Peace died and he stood by, indifferent 
and unmoved. 

In tardy atonement, he covered the grave in 
the churchyard with flowers — the goldenrod 
and purple aster that marched side by side 
over the hills to meet the frost, gay and fear- 
less to the last. 

He saw himself as he had been then, and 
his heart grew hot with shame. “I don’t 


*54 


Zbc jfi&aster’s IDioUit 


wonder she called me a clod/’ he said to him- 
self, “for that is what I was.” 

In the maze of darkness through which he 
somehow lived, there was but one ray of 
comfort— the Master. Lynn felt, vaguely, that 
here was something upon which he might 
lean. He did not perceive that it was his 
own individuality which Herr Kaufmann had 
in some way awakened, so prone are we to 
confuse the person with the thing, the thought 
with the deed. 

Day after day, he tramped over the hills 
around East Lancaster ; day by day, footsore 
and weary, he sought for peace along those 
sunlit fields. At night, desperately tired and 
faint with hunger, he crept home, where he 
slept uneasily, waking always with that hand 
of terror clutching at his heart 

He went most frequently to the pile of 
rocks in the woods, a mile or more from the 
house. There were no signs upon the bare 
earth around it ; seemingly no one went there 
but Lynn. Yet the suggestion of an altar 
was openly made, from the wide ledge at the 
foundation, where one might kneel, to the 
cross at the summit, rude, stern, and forbid- 
ding, chiselled in the rock. 


Xgnn Comes Unto t)fs ©wn 255 


Here, many times, Lynn had found comfort. 
Someone else, whose heart swelled, burned, 
and tried to escape, had cut that cross upon 
the granite. Thus he came, by slow degrees, 
into an intimate, invisible companionship. 

Herr Kaufmann had ceased to speak of 
lessons, though Lynn went there sometimes 
and sat by while he worked. The Master had 
admitted him to that high fellowship which 
does not demand speech. For an hour or 
more, Lynn might sit there, watching, and 
yet no word would be spoken. As with 
Dr. Brinkerhoff, there were occasional visits 
in which nothing was said but “ Good after- 
noon ” and “ Good-bye.” 

Fraulein Fredrika was always busy over- 
head with her manifold household tasks, and 
se'dom disturbed them by coming into the 
shop. Lynn wondered if the house was 
never clean, and once put the question to 
Herr Kaufmann. 

“ Mine house is always clean/' he an- 
swered, “except down here. Twice in 
every year, I allow Fredrika to come in mine 
shop with her cloths and her brush and her 
pails. The rest of the time, it is mine own. 
If she could clean here all the time, as up- 


256 Ube /©aster's IDtoiin 

stairs, I think she would be more happy. If 
you like to come in mine shop when I am 
not here, I am willing. It is one quiet place 
where one can rest undisturbed and think of 
many things. Fredrika would not care.” 

Weeks later, Lynn thought of the kindly 
offer. A storm was coming up, and he re- 
membered that the Master had spoken of 
driving to another town with Dr. Brinkerhofif. 
“I have one violin,” he had explained, 
“ which was ordered long ago and which is 
now finished. While the Herr Doctor visits 
the sick, I will go on with mine instrument 
and perhaps obtain one more pupil.” 

Fraulein Fredrika answered his ring, and he 
asked, conventionally, fo** Herr Kaufmann. 
“ Mine brudder is not home,” she saiu. “ He 
will have gone away, but I think not for long. 
You will perhaps come in and wait?” 

“ I will not disturb you,” replied Lynn. “I 
will go down in th*. shop.” 

“ But no,” returned the Fraulein, coaxingly. 
" Will you not stay with me ? Iam with the 
loneliness when mine brudder is away. You 
will sit with me ? Yes ? It will be most kind ! ” 
Thus entreated, he could not refuse, and 

he sat down in the parlour, awkward and ill 

* 


Xpnn Comes Unto 1 bis Own 257 


at ease. His hostess at once proceeded to 
entertain him. 

“You think it will rain, yes?” she asked. 

“Yes, I think so.” 

“Well, I do not,” returned the Fraulein, 
smiling. “ I always think the best. Let us 
wait and see which is right.” 

“We need rain,” objected Lynn, turning 
uneasily in his chair. 

“ But not when mine brudder is out. He 
and the Herr Doctor will have gone for a long 
drive. Mine brudder have finished one fine 
violin and the Herr Doctor will visit the sick. 
Mine brudder’ s friend possesses great skill.” 

Lynn looked moodily past her and out of 
the window. The Fraulein changed her tac- 
tics. “You have not seen mine new clothes- 
brush,” she suggested. 

“No, returned Lynn, unthinkingly, “I 
have n’t.” 

“Then I will get him.” 

She came back, presently, and put it into 
Lynn’s hand. It was made of three strands 
of heavy rope, braided, looped to form a handle, 
tied with a blue ribbon, and ravelled at the 
ends. “See,” she said, “is it not most 
beautiful ? ” 


TLbc /©aster's Wolfit 


258 

“Yes,” agreed Lynn, absently. 

“Miss Iris have told me how to make 
him.” 

Lynn came to himself with a start. “ And 
this,” she went on, pointing to the gilded 
potato-masher that hung under the swinging 
lamp, “and this, — but no, it is you who have 
made this for me. Miss Iris showed you 
how.” She pointed to the butterfly made so 
long ago, but still in its pristine glory. 

He said nothing, but by his face Fraulein 
Fredrika saw that she had made a mistake — 
that she had somehow been clumsy. After 
all, it was very difficult, this conversing with 
gentlemen. Franz was easy to get along 
with, but the others? She shook her head 
in despair, and immediately relinquished the 
thought of entertaining Lynn. 

She could not tell him that she had changed 
her mind, that she no longer wanted him to 
sit with her, and that he could go down in the 
shop to wait for Herr Kaufmann. Painfully, 
in the silence, she considered several expedi- 
ents, and at last her face brightened. 

“Now that you are here,” she said, “to 
guard mine house, it will be of a possibility 
for me to go out for some vegetables for mine 


Xpnn Comes Into Ibis Cwn 259 


brudder's dinner. He will have been very 
hungry from his long ride, and you see it is 
not going to rain. You will excuse me for a 
short time, yes?” 

“Gladly,” answered Lynn, with sincerity. 

“ Then I need not fear to go. It will be 
most kind.” 

She had been gone but a few minutes when 
the storm broke. Lynn saw the wild rain 
sweep across the valley with a sense of peace- 
ful security which was quite new to him. 
For some time, now, he would be alone — 
alone, and yet sheltered from the storm. 

Very often, after a deep experience, one 
looks upon the inanimate things which were 
present at the beginning of it with wondering 
curiosity. The crazy jug, the purple tidy em- 
broidered with pink roses, and the gilded 
potato-masher which swung back and forth 
when the wind shook the house, were 
strangely linked with Destiny. 

Here he had thoughtlessly touched the Cre- 
mona, and, for the time being, made an 
enemy of the Fraulein. Her dislike of him 
abated only when he and Iris made her the 
hideous paper butterfly which illuminated a 
corner. A flash of memory took him back to 


g6o TLbc /Raster's IDioUn 

the day they made it, alone, in the big dining- 
room. He saw the sweet seriousness in the 
girl’s face as she glued on the antennae, having 
chosen proper bits of an old ostrich feather for 
the purpose. 

And now, the dining-room was empty, save 
of the haunting shadows. Aunt Peace was at 
rest in the churchyard, the fever at an end, and 
Iris — Iris had gone, leaving desolation in her 
wake. 

Only the butterfly remained — the flimsy, 
fragile thing that any passing wind might 
easily have destroyed. The finer things of the 
spirit, that are supposed to be permanent, had 
vanished. In their place, there was only a 
heartache, which waxed greater as the days 
went by, and through the long nights which 
brought no surcease of pain. 

In the beginning, Lynn had felt himself ab- 
solutely alone. Now he began to perceive 
that he had been taken into an invisible 
brotherhood. He was like one in a crowd- 
ed playhouse when the lights go out, iso- 
lated to all intents and purposes, and yet 
conscious that others are near him, sharing 
his emotions. 

The thunders boomed across the valley and 


Xsnn Comes flnto Dis Own 261 


the lightnings rived the clouds. The grey 
rain swirled against the windows and the 
house swayed in the wind. Then, almost as 
suddenly as it had begun, the storm ceased, 
and Lynn smiled. 

Diamonds dripped from every twig, and the 
grass was full of them. The laughter of 
happy children came to his ears, and a rainbow 
of living light spanned the valley. Its floating 
draperies overhung the topmost branches of 
the trees on the crest of the opposite hill, and 
picked out here and there a jewel — a ruby, an 
opal, or an emerald, set in the silvered frame- 
work of the leaves. 

Lynn sighed heavily, for the beauty of it 
sent the old, remorseless pain to surging 
through his heart. The Master’s violin lay on 
the piano near him, and he took it up, noting 
only that it was not the Cremona. 

As his fingers touched the strings, there 
came a sense of familiarity with the instru- 
ment, as one who meets a friend after a long 
separation. He tightened the strings, picked 
up the bow, and began to play. 

It was the adagio movement of the concerto 
— the one which Herr Kaufmann had said 
was full of heartache and tears. In all the 


262 


Ubc fl&aster's Violin 


literature of music, there was nothing so 
well suited to his mood. 

He stood with his face to the window, 
his eyes still fixed upon the rainbow, and 
deep, quivering tones came from the violin. 
In an instant, Lynn recognised his mastery. 
He was playing as the great had played 
before him, with passion and with infinite 
pain. 

All the beauty of the world was a part of it 
— the sun, the wide fields of clover, and the 
Summer rain. Moonlight and the sound of 
many waters, the unutterable midnights of the 
universe, Iris and the beauty of the marshes, 
where her name-flower, like a thread of pur- 
ple, embroidered a royal tapestry. Beyond 
this still was the beauty of the spirit, which 
believes all things, suffers all things, and tri- 
umphs at last through its suffering and its 
belief. 

Primal forces spoke through the adagio, 
swelling into splendid chords — love and 
night and death. It was the cry of a soul in 
bondage, straining to be free; struggling to 
break the chain and take its place, by right of 
its knowledge and its compassion, with those 
who have learned to live. 


%vnn Comes Into this Own 263 


Lynn was quivering like an aspen in a 
storm, and he breathed heavily. Through the 
majestic crescendo came that deathless mes- 
sage: “Endure, and thou shalt triumph; 
wait, and thou shalt see.” Like an undercur- 
rent, too, was the inseparable mystery of pain. 

Under the spell of the music, he saw it all 
— the wide working of the law which takes 
no account of the finite because it deals with 
the infinite; which takes no heed of the indi- 
vidual because it guards us all. Far removed 
from its personal significance, his grief became 
his friend — the keynote, the password, the 
countersign admitting him to that vast Valhalla 
where the shining souls of the immortals, out- 
growing defeat, have put on the garments of 
Victory. 

Sunset took the rainbow and made it into 
flame. Once more Lynn played the adagio, 
instinct with its world-old story, voicing its 
world-old law. He was so keenly alive that 
the strings cut into his fingers, yet he played 
on, fully comprehending, fully believing, 
through the splendid chords of the crescendo 
to the end. 

Then there was a faltering step upon the 
stair, a fumbling at the latch, and someone 


264 


Ubc /Cast er's IDioIin 


staggered into the room. It was the Master, 
blind with tears, his loved Cremona in his 
outstretched hands. 

" Here ! ” he cried, brokenly. “ Son of mine 
heart! Play l ” 


XIX 

Cbe Secret Chamber 

U ITE loves her still.” The memory of the 

1 1 words carried balm to Margaret's sore 
heart. There could be no mistake, for Doctor 
Brinkerhoff had been positive. It was abso- 
lutely, beautifully true. Believing all the time 
that he had forgotten, she was now proved 
false. 

Swiftly upon the thought came another 
which sent the blood to her face. In all the 
time she had been in East Lancaster, she had 
feared that he might in some way learn of her 
presence, and now there was nothing she de- 
sired so much. Had Aunt Peace lived, she 
would scarcely have dared to continue the ac- 
quaintance, for, like Doctor Brinkerhoff, the 
Master was without “social position.” 

Iris, too, had gone — no one need know but 
Lynn. Herr Kaufmann did not know the 
name of the man she had married, and he 


266 


XTbe (toaster's IDioUn 


thought Lynn's mother a stranger. It would 
be very simple to write the Master a note, 
saying that he had been so good to Lynn and 
had done so much for him that his mother 
would like to express her appreciation person- 
ally, and end by asking him to call. 

But would the old promise still keep him 
away? As though it were yesterday, Mar- 
garet remembered her mother as she sternly 
demanded from Franz his promise never to 
enter the house again — and Franz was one 
who always kept his word 

Then she reflected that on the day when 
Aunt Peace received guests for the last time 
he had been there, in that very house, with 
the Cremona, which had separated them in 
the beginning and, years later, so strangely 
brought them together. 

Doctor Brinkerhoff had asked permission to 
bring his friend, and it would be so simple to 
give it. So easy to say: “Doctor, it would 
give me pleasure to meet your friend, Herr 
Kaufmann. Will you not bring him with you 
next Wednesday evening?" But, after all 
the years, all the sorrow that lay between 
them, would she wish Doctor Brinkerhoff to 
be there ? Was it not also taking an unfair 


XEbe Secret Chamber 


267 


advantage of the Master, to send for him, and 
then suddenly confront him with his sweet- 
heart of long ago ? Margaret put the plan 
aside without further thought. 

And Lynn — would she wish Lynn to bring 
Herr Kaufmann ? Would she want her son to 
tell him that she was the woman he had loved 
in vain a quarter of a century ago ? Margaret 
flushed crimson as she imagined the meeting. 
Lynn did not know that it was the Master- 
only that she had cared for someone whom 
she did not marry. Would she wish Lynn tc 
stand by, surprised and perhaps troubled? 
Her heart answered no. 

The note, too, would be an unfair ad- 
vantage. He would not know “Margaret 
Irving,” and she could not well write that 
they had once loved each other. After all, 
she had only Doctor Brinkerhoffs word for it, 
and he might be mistaken. Even the Master 
might be labouring under a delusion — might 
only think he cared. 

The after-meetings are often pathetic, 
between those who have loved in youth. 
Circumstance parts two who vow undying 
devotion, and one, perhaps, remains faithful, 
while the other forgets. Sometimes, both 


‘268 


Ubc Master’s Violin 


I 

marry elsewhere, each with the other’s image 
securely hidden in those secret chambers of 
ihe heart, which twilight and music serve 
best to open. 

Time, that kindly magician, softens the 
harsh outlines, eliminates every defect, and, 
by his wondrous alchemy, transmutes the real 
to the ideal. Thus in one’s inmost soul is 
enshrined the old love, with countless other 
precious things. 

Rue lies at the threshold, for Regret, like a 
sentinel, guards the door, and to enter, one 
must first make peace with Regret. The 
labyrinthine passages are hung with shining 
fabrics, woven of long-dead dreams. The 
floor is deeply hidden with rosemary, that 
homely, fragrant herb which means remem- 
brance. The light is that of a stained-glass 
window, where the sun streams through 
many colours, and illumines the utmost re- 
cesses with a rainbow gleam. 

Costly vessels are there, holding Heart’s 
Desire, which must wait for its fulfilment un- 
til immortal dawn. Heart’s Belief is in a 
chest, laid away with lavender, but the lock 
is rusty and does not readily yield. Heart’s 
Love, sweet with spikenard, waits near the 


Ube Secret Chamber 269 


door, so eager to pass the threshold, where 
stands Regret! 

Memory's jewels are there, in many a casket 
of cunning workmanship, where the dust never 
lies. Emeralds made of the “ green pastures 
and the still waters”; sapphires that were 
born of sun and sea. Topazes of the golden 
glow that comes after a rain; diamonds of the 
white light of noon. Rubies that have stolen 
their colour from the warm blood of t he heart, 
gladly giving its deepest love. Amethysts 
made of dead violets, still hinting that perisha- 
ble fragrance which, perhaps, like a single 
precious drop, still lives within, forever out 
of the reach of decay. Opals made from 
changeful flame, of irised fancies that lived 
but for the space of a thought, then passed 
away. Linked together by a thousand per- 
fect moments, these jewels of Memory wait 
for the quiet hour when one’s fingers lift 
them from their hiding-place, and one's eyes, 
forgetting tears, shine with the old joy. 

The petals of crimson roses, long since 
crushed and dead, rustle softly from the 
shadow when the door of the secret chamber 
opens. Melodies start from the silence and 
breathe the haunting measures of some lost 


270 


Ube /©aster’s WoUn 


song. Letters, ragged and worn, with the 
tint of old ivory upon their eloquent pages, 
whisper still: “I love you,” though the hand 
that penned the tender message has long since 
been folded, with its mate, upon the quiet 
heart. 

When the world has proved forbidding, 
when love has been unresponsive, and friend- 
ship has failed, one steals to the secret cham- 
ber with a sense of sanctuary. Past Regret, 
stern, unyielding, and austere, one goes si- 
lently, having given the password, and 
enters in. 

The fragrant herbs and the rose petals bring 
balm to the tired heart, that heart which has 
loved so vainly, has tried so faithfully, and 
failed. The ghosts of dreams, woven in the 
tapestries that hide the walls, come back to 
touch the roughened fingers of the one who 
followed out the Pattern, in the midst of 
blinding tears. All the music that has soothed 
and comforted, trembles once more from 
muted strings. The work-worn hands, made 
old and hard by unselfish toil, become fair 
and smooth at a lover’s kiss of long ago. 
After an hour in the secret chamber, when 
Mnemosyne, singing, brings forth her treas- 


Cbe Secret Chamber 


Q^l 


ures, one goes back, serene and fearless, to 
meet whatever may come. 

Margaret came from her secret chamber 
with a smile upon her lips. In that one hour, 
she had finally parted with all bitterness, all 
sense of loss. After twenty-five years of 
heart hunger and disappointment, she had put 
it all aside, and come into her heritage of 
content. 

She began to consider Herr Kaufmann 
again. After all, what was there to be 
gained ? She might be disappointed in him, 
or he might be disillusioned in regard to her. 
She remembered what a friend had once told 
her, years ago. 

“My dear,” she had said, “there is one 
thing in my life for which I have never ceased 
to be thankful. When 1 was very young, 

\ fell in love with a boy of my own age, and 
our parents, by separating us, kept us from 
making a hasty marriage. I did not forget, 
but later I met a man who was much better 
suited to me in every way, whom I liked and 
thoroughly respected, and of whom my 
mother approved. But, secretly, I cherished 
this old love until one day a lucky chance 


ttbe /©aster’s tDfolfn 


272 

brought me face to face with him. In an 
instant, the whole thing was gone, and I 
laughed at my folly — laughed because I was 
free. I married the other, and I have been a 
very happy wife — far happier than I should 
have been had I continued to believe myself 
in love with a memory. ” 

There was truth in it, Margaret reflected. 
She went over to her mirror and sat down 
before it, to study her face. She was forty- 
five, and the bloom of youth was gone. The 
grey threads at her temples and around her 
low brow softened her face, where Time had 
left the prints of his passing. Her eyes, that 
had once been merry, were sad now, and 
the corners of her mouth drooped a little. 
She turned away from the mirror with a sigh, 
wondering if, after all, the dreams were not 
the best. 

Moreover, the womanly instinct asserted 
itself. To be sought and never to do the 
seeking, to hold one’s self high and apart, to 
be earned but never given — this feeling, so 
long in abeyance, returned to its rightful 
place. 

When the years bring wisdom, one learns 
to leave many problems to their own working 


Ube Secret Chamber 


273 


out. Margaret determined not to interfere with 
the complex undercurrents which, like subter- 
ranean rivers, lie beneath our daily living. It 
might happen or it might not, but she would 
not seek to control the subtle forces which 
forever work secretly toward the fulfilling of 
the law. To live on from day to day, mak- 
ing the best of it, — this is a simple creed, but 
no one yet has found it unsatisfactory. 

Lynn came in and went straight to his 
room. Margaret heard him walking back 
and forth, as if in search of something. He 
tuned his violin and she rejoiced, because at 
last he had turned to his practise. 

But it was not practising that she heard. 
It was the concerto, every measure of which 
she knew by heart. With the first notes, she 
felt a new authority, a new grasp, and began 
to wonder if it were really Lynn. She leaned 
forward, her body tense, to listen. 

When he came to the adagio, the hot tears 
blinded her. Lynn, her boy, to play like 
this ! Her mother’s heart beat high in an 
ecstasy of gratitude for the full payment, the 
granting of her heart’s desire. 

The deep tones stirred her very soul. The 
passion of it made her tremble, the beauty of 


274 


XTbe toaster's IDioIfn 


it made her afraid. Wondering, she saw the 
working out of it, — that at the very hour when 
she had surrendered, had given up, had cast 
aside her bitterness forever, Lynn had come 
into his own. 

With splendid dignity, with exquisite phras- 
ing, with masterful interpretation, the con- 
certo moved to its end. It left her faint, her 
heart wildly beating. Through Lynn, Franz 
had worked out her salvation, her atonement ; 
through Lynn full payment had been made. 

When he came out of his room, she was in 
the hall, her face alight with her great happi- 
ness. “ Lynn 1 ” she cried. A world of mean- 
ing was in the name. 

“ I know,” he returned, but all the youth 
was gone out of his voice. At once she real- 
ised that he had crossed the dividing line, 
that, even to her, he was no longer a child, 
but a man. 

He went past her, walked downstairs 
slowly, and went out. •* Poor lad! ” she mur- 
mured; ‘‘poor soul!” Lynn, too, had paid 
the price — was it needful that both should 
pay? 

But, none the less, the fact remained ; the 
boon had been granted and full payment 


Ube Secret Chamber 


275 


made, in e&ch instance the same payment. 
She had paid with long years of heart-hunger, 
which only now had ceased. Lynn's years 
still lay before him. 

A sob choked her. Was not the price too 
high ? Must he bear what she had borne for 
these five and twenty years? With all the 
passion of her motherhood, she yearned to 
shield him ; to eke out, in the remainder of her 
days, the remorseless balance against Lynn. 

But in the working of that law there is no 
discrimination — the price is fixed and unalter- 
able, the payment merciless and sure. There 
is no escape for the individual ; it is contin- 
ually the sacrifice of the one for the many, the 
part for the whole. 

Try as she would, Margaret could not go 
back. She could not, for Lynn's sake, take 
up the burden she had laid down, in the futile 
effort to bear more. From her, no more 
would be accepted, so much was plain. 
The rest must come from Lynn. 

Her heart ached for him, but there was 
nothing she could do, except to stand aside 
and watch, while his broad shoulders grew 
accustomed to their load. A wild impulse 
seized her to go to the city, find Iris, bring 


XTbe Master's Violin 


C76 

her back, even unwillingly, and literally force 
her to marry Lynn. But that was not what 
Lynn wanted, and Margaret herself had been 
forced into a marriage. Clearly, at last, she 
saw that she must remain passive, and cultivate 
resignation. 

The hours went by and Lynn did not return. 
She well knew the mood in which he had 
gone away. At night, white-faced and weary, 
with his eyes gleaming strangely, he would 
come back, refuse to eat, and lock himself into 
his room. It had been so for a long time and 
it would be so until, through the slow work- 
ing of the inner forces, he stepped over the 
boundary that his mother had just crossed. 

White noon ascended the arch of the heav- 
ens, blazed a moment at the zenith, and then 
went on. The golden hours followed, each 
one making the shadows a little longer, the 
earth more radiant, if that could be. 

Upon the hills were set the blood-red seals 
of the frost. Every maple, robed in glory, had 
taken on the garments of royalty. The air 
shimmered with the amethystine haze of Indian 
Summer, that veil of luminous mist, vibrant 
with colour, which Autumn weaves on her 
loom. 


Cbe Secret Chamber 


277 


Margaret went out, leaving the door ajar for 
Lynn. There were few keys in East Lancas- 
ter. A locked door was discourteous — a re- 
flection upon the integrity of one’s neighbours. 

From the elms the yellow leaves were 
dropping, like telegrams from the high places, 
saying that Summer had gone. She turned 
at the corner and went east, the long light 
throwing her shadow well before her. “ It is 
like Life,” she mused, smiling; “we go 
through it, following shadows — things that 
vanish when there is a shifting of the light.” 

Across the clover fields, where the dried 
blossoms stirred in their sleep as she passed, 
through the upland pastures, stony and bar- 
ren, with the pools overgrown, through a 
fallow field, shorn of its harvest, where only 
the tiny lace-makers spread their webs amidst 
the stubble, Margaret’s way was all familiar, 
and yet sadly changed. 

A meadow-lark, the last one of his kind, 
winged a leisurely way southward, singing as 
he flew. A squirrel flaunted his bushy tail, 
gave her a daring backward glance, and scur- 
ried up a tree. She laughed, and paused at 
the entrance to the forest. 

Once she had stood there, thrilled to her. 


XTbe Master's IDfoUtt 


278 

inmost soul. Again she had waited there, 
white to the lips with pain. Now she had 
outgrown it, had learned peace, and the long 
years slipped away, each with its own burden. 

The wood was exquisitely still. A nut 
dropped now and then, and a belated bird 
called to its mate. The swift patter of fairy 
feet echoed and re-echoed through the long 
aisles. The air was crystalline, yet full of 
colour, and the gold and crimson leaves floated 
idly back and forth. It needed only a passing 
wind, at the right moment and from the right 
place, to make a rainbow then and there. 

She went farther into the wood, with a 
sense of friendliness for the well-known way. 
Just at the turn of the path, she stopped, 
amazed. At their trysting- place, where the 
wide rock was laid at the foot of the oak, 
someone had reared an altar and blazoned a 
cross upon the stone. 

Her eyes filled, for she knew who had made 
it, that symbol of sacrifice. Weather-worn 
and moss-grown, it must have stood for the 
whole of the five and twenty years. There 
was no word, no inscription — only the cross, 
but for her it was enough. 

‘*To kiss the cross, Sweetheart, to kiss the 


Cbe Secret Chamber 


279 


cross! ” The last measures of the song rever- 
berated through her memory, as Iris had sung 
it in her deep contralto, so long ago. 

Sobbing, she knelt, with her lips against 
the symbol, then suddenly started to her feet, 
for there was a step upon the path. 

For a blinding instant, they faced each other c 
unbelieving, then the Master opened his arms. 

“Beloved,” he breathed, " is it thou ?” 


XX 

* flDine Brubber’s Jfrienb ” 


HAT day the Master put aside the garment 



1 of his years. The quarter century that 
had lain between them like a thorny, upward 
path was suddenly blotted out, and only the 
memory of it remained. Belated, but none 
the less keen, the primeval joy came back to 
him. Youth and love, the bounding pulse 
and the singing heart, — they were all his. 

It was twilight when they came away from 
the moss-grown altar in the forest, his arm 
around his sweetheart, and the faces of both 
wet with happy tears. 

“Until to-morrow, mine Liebchen,” he 
said. “ How shall 1 now wait for that to- 
morrow when we part no more ? The dear 
God knew. He gave to me the cutting and 
the long night that in the end I might deserve 
thee. He was making of me an instrument 
suited to thy little hand.” He kissed the hand 


“ ^ine Grubber' s jfrfenb ” 


281 

as he spoke, and Margaret’s eyes filled once 
more. 

Through the mist of her tears she saw the 
rising moon rocking idly just above the 
horizon. “See,” said the Master, “it is a 
new light from the east, from the same place 
as thou hast come to me. Many a time have 
I watched it, thinking that it also shone on 
thee; that perhaps thy eyes, as well as mine, 
were upon it, and thus, through heaven, we 
were united.” 

“Those whom God hath joined together,” 
murmured Margaret, “let no man put as- 
under.” 

“Those whom God hath joined,” returned 
the Master, reverently, “no man can put 
asunder. Dost thou not see ? I thought thou 
hadst forgotten, and when I go to keep mine 
tryst with Grief, I find thee there, with thy 
lips upon the cross.” 

“1 have never gone before,” whispered 
Margaret. “1 could not.” 

“So? Mine Beloved, I have gone there , 
many times. When mine sorrow has filled 
mine old heart to breaking, I have gone there, 
that I might look upon thy cross and mine 
and so gain strength. It is where we parted, 


/ 


282 Ubc /toaster's IDiolfn 

where thy lips were last on mine. Some- 
times I have gone with mine Cremona and 
played until mine sore heart was at peace. 
And to-day, I find thee there! The dear 
Father has been most kind.” 

“Did you know me?” asked Margaret, 
shyly. “ Have I not grown old ? ” 

“Mine Liebchen, thou canst never grow 
old. Thou hast the beauty of immortal youth. 
As I saw thee to-day, so have I seen thee in 
mine dream. Sometimes I have felt that thou 
hadst taken up thy passing, and I have hun- 
gered for mine, for it was a certainty in mine 
heart that the dear Father would give thee 
back to me in heaven. 

“ I do not think of heaven as the glittering 
place with the streets of gold and the walls 
of pearl, but more like one quiet wood, where 
the grass is green and the little brook sings all 
day. I have thought of heaven as the place 
where those who love shall be together, free 
from all misunderstanding or the thought of 
parting. 

“The great ones say that man’s own need 
gives him his conception of the dear God; 
that if he needs the avenging angel, so is God 
to him; that if he needs but the friend, that 


44 Wine JBvubber’B Jf rtenb 99 283 


will God be. And so, in mine dream of 
heaven, because it was mine need, I have 
thought of it but as one sunny field, where 
there was clover in the long grass and tall 
trees at one side, with the clear, shining 
waters beyond, where we might quench our 
thirst, and thee beside me forever, with thy 
little hand in mine. And now, because 1 
have paid mine price, I do not have to wait 
until I am dead ,or mine heaven; the dear 
God gives it to me here.” 

44 Whatever heaven may be,” said Margaret, 
thrilled to the utmost depths of her soul, 44 it 
can be no more than this.” 

44 Nor different,” answered the Master, 
drawing her closer. 44 1 think it is like this, 
without the fear of parting.” 

44 Parting!” repeated Margaret, with a rush 
of tears; 44 oh, do not speak of parting 1” 

44 Mine Beloved,” said the Master, and his 
voice was very tender, 44 there is nothing per- 
fect here — there must always be parting. If 
it were not so, we should have no need of 
heaven. But to the end of the road thou and 
I will go together. 

"See! In the beginning, we were upon 
separate paths, and, after so long a time, 


284 


Ube /©aster’s tittolin 


the ways met. For a little space we jour- 
neyed together, and because of it the sun 
was more bright, the flowers more sweet, the 
road more easy. Then comes the hard place 
and the ways divide. But though the leagues 
lie between us and we do not see, we go 
always at the same pace, and so, in a way, 
together. We learn the same things, we 
think the same things, we suffer the same 
things, because we were of those whom the 
dear God hath joined. Another walks beside 
thee and yet not with thee, because, through 
all the distance, thou art mine. 

“And so we go until thy road is turned. 
Thou dost not know it is turned, because the 
circle is so great thou canst not see. Little 
dost thou dream thou art soon to meet again 
with thy old Franz. Through the thicket, 
meanwhile, I am going, and mine way is hard 
and set with brambles. It is only mine blind 
faith which helps me onward — that, and the 
vision in mine heart of thee, which never for 
a day, nor even for an hour, hath been 
absent. 

“One day mine road turns too, and there 
art thou, mine Beloved, leading by the hand 
mine son.” 


44 flMne JSrubber’s ffrienb ” 285 


Margaret was sobbing, her face hidden 
against his shoulder. 

“ Mine Liebchen, it is not for me to bear 
thy tears. Much can I endure, but not that. 
After the long waiting, I have thee close 
again, thou and mine son, the tall young fel- 
low with the honest face and the laughing 
ways, who have made of himself one artist. 

“The way lies long before us, but it is 
toward the west, and sunset hath already be- 
gun to come upon the clouds. But until the 
end we go together, thy little hand in mine. 

“Some day, Beloved, when the ways part 
once more, and thou or I shall be called to fol- 
low the Grey Angel into the darkness, I think 
we shall not fear. Perhaps we shall be very 
weary, and the one will be glad because the 
other has come into the Great Rest. But, 
Beloved, thou knowest that if it is I who 
must follow the Grey Angel, and still leave 
thee on the dusty road alone, mine grave 
will be no division. Life hath not taught me 
not to love thee with all mine soul, and Death 
shall not. Life is the positive, and Death is 
the negation. Shall Death, then, do some- 
thing more than Life can do? Oh, mine 
Liebchen, do not fear 1 ” 


c86 


XTbe Master's Vfottn 


The Autumn mists were rising and the 
stars gleamed faintly, like far-off points of 
pearl. At the bridge, they said good night, 
and Margaret went on home, wishing, even 
then, that she might bear the burden for Lynn. 

The Master went up the hill with his blood 
singing in his veins. Fredrika thought him 
unusually abstracted, but strangely happy, 
and until long past midnight, he sat by the 
window, improvising upon the Cremona a 
theme of such passionate beauty that the heart 
within her trembled and was afraid. 

That night Fredrika dreamed that someone 
had parted her from Franz, and when she 
woke, her pillow was wet with tears. 

It was not until the next afternoon that he 
realised that he must tell her. After long puz- 
zling over the problem, he went to Doctor 
Brinkerhofifs. 

The Doctor was out, and did not return 
until almost sunset When he came, the 
Master was sitting in the same uncomfortable 
chair that, with monumental patience, he had 
occupied for hours. 

“Mine friend,” said the Master, with 
solemn joy, “look in mine face and tell me 
what you see.” 


“ /8Mtxe Brub&er’s if rienfc> ” 287 


“ What I see!” repeated the Doctor, mys- 
tified; “ why, nothing but the same blunder- 
ing old fellow that 1 have always seen.” 

The Master laughed happily. “So? And 
this blundering old fellow; has nothing come 
to him ?” 

“ I can’t imagine,” said the Doctor, shak- 
ing his head. “ I may be dense, but 1 fear 
you will have to tell me.” 

“So? Then listen! Long since, perhaps, 
you have known of mine sorrow. Of it I 
have never said much, because mine old heart 
was sore, and because mine friend could un- 
derstand without words.” 

" Yes,” replied the Doctor, eagerly, “ I 
knew that the one you loved was taken away 
from you while you were both very young.” 

“ Yes. Well, look in mine face once more 
and tell me what you see.” 

“ You— you have n’t found her! ” gasped the 
Doctor, quite beside himself with surprise. 

“ Precisely,” the Master assured him, with 
his face beaming. 

The Doctor wrung his hand. “ Franz, my 
old friend,” he cried, “words cannot tell you 
how glad I am! Where — who is she ?” 

“ Mine friend,” returned the Master, “ it is 


288 


Ube toaster's IDioltn 


you who are one blundering old fellow. Af- 
ter taking to yourself the errand of telling her 
that I loved her still, you did not see fit to 
come back to me with the news that she also 
cared. Thereby much time has been wrongly 
spent. ” 

The Doctor grew hot and cold by turns. 
“ You don’t mean — ” he cried. “ Not — not 
Mrs. Irving ! ” 

“Who else?” asked the Master, serenely. 
“ In all the world is she not the most lovely 
lady ? Who that has seen her does not love 
her, and why not I ? ” 

Doctor Brinkerhoff sank into a chair, very 
much excited. 

“It is one astonishment also to me,” the 
Master went on. “ I cannot believe that the 
dear God has been so good, and I must 
always be pinching mineself to be sure that 
I do not sleep. It is most wonderful.” 

“It is, indeed,” the Doctor returned. 

“ But see how it has happened. Only now 
can I understand. In the beginning, mine 
heart is very hurt, but out of mine hurt there 
comes the power to make mineself one great 
artist. It was mine Cremona that made the 
parting, because I am so foolish that I must go 


“ flDtne JBrub&er’s 3f dent) ” 289 


in her house to look at it. It was mine Cre- 
mona that took her to me the last time, when 
she gave it to me. ‘ Franz/ she says, * if you 
take this, you will not forget me, and it is 
mine to do with what I please.* 

“ So, when 1 have made mineself the great 
artist, 1 have played on mine Cremona to 
many thousands, and the tears have come 
from all. See, it is always mine Cremona. 
And because of this, she has heard of me afar 
off, and she has chosen to have mine son learn 
the violin from me, so that he also shall be 
one artist. Twice she have heard me and 
mine Cremona when we make the music to- 
gether; once in the street outside mine house, 
and once when I played the Ave Maria in her 
house when the old lady was dead.** 

Doctor Brinkerhoff turned away, his mus- 
cles suddenly rigid, but the Master talked on, 
heedlessly. 

“See, it is always mine Cremona, and the 
dear God has made us in the same way. He 
has made mine violin out of the pain, the cut- 
ting, and the long night, and also me, so that I 
shall be suited to touch it. It is so that I am to 
her as mine Cremona is to me — 1 am her instru- 
ment, and she can do with me what she will. 


290 


Ubc /toaster’s Dioltn 


“ It is but the one string now that needs the 
tuning,” went on the Master, deeply troubled. 
“I know not what to do with mine Fred- 
rika.” 

“Fredrika!” repeated Doctor BrinkerhofT. 
He, too, had forgotten the faithful Fraulein. 

“The bright colours are not for mine Lieb- 
chen,” the Master continued. 

“The bright colours,” said the Doctor, by 
some curious trick of mind immediately upon 
the defensive, “why, I have always thought 
them very pretty.” 

A great light broke in upon the Master, and 
he could not be expected to perceive that it 
was only a will o’ the wisp. “ So,” he cried, 
triumphantly, “you have loved mine sister! 
1 have sometimes thought so, and now 1 
know!” 

The Doctor’s face turned a dull red, his eye- 
lids drooped, and he wiped his forehead with 
his handkerchief. 

“Ah, mine friend,” said the Master, exult- 
antly, “is it not most wonderful to see how 
we have played at the cross-purposes ? All 
these years you have waited because you 
would not take mine sister away from me, 
you, mine kind, unselfish friend! So much 


u flDine JSrufcfcer’s friend ” 291 


fun have you made of mine housekeeping be- 
fore she came that you would not do me thus 
wrong! 

“And I — I could not send mine sister the 
money to take the long journey, and for many 
years keep her from her Germany and her 
friends, then after one night say to her: 
‘ Fredrika, I have found mine old sweetheart 
and I no longer want you.* 

“Mine Fredrika has never known of mine 
sorrow, and I cannot to-day give her the 
news. It is not for me to make mine sister's 
heart to ache as mine has ached all these 
years, nor could I give her the money to go 
back to her Germany because I no longer want 
her, when she has given it all up for me It 
would be most unkind. 

“ But now, see what the dear God has 
done for us! When it is all worked out, and 
we come to the end, we see that you, also, 
share. I know, mine friend, I know what it 
has been for you, because I, too, have been 
through the deep waters, and now we come to 
the land together. It is most fitting, because 
we are friends. 

“ Moreover, you are to her as she is to you. 
She has not told me, but mine old eyes are 


U be /Caster’s IDiolfn 


292 

sharp and I see. I tell you this to put the 
courage into your heart. If you make mine 
sister happy, it is all I shall ask. Go, now, to 
mine Fredrika, and tell her I will not be back 
until late this evening! Is it not most beau- 
tiful ?” 

Limp, helpless, and sorely shaken, but with- 
out the faintest idea of protesting, Doctor 
Brinkerhoff found himself started up the hill. 
The Master stood at the foot, waving his hat 
in boyish fashion and shouting messages of 
good-will. At last, when he dared to look 
back, the Doctor saw that the way was clear, 
and he sat down upon a boulder by the road- 
side to think. 

He would be ungenerous, indeed, he 
thought, if he could not make some sac- 
rifice for Franz and for Mrs. Irving. Unwill- 
ingly, he had come into possession of 
Fraulein Fredrika’s closely guarded secret, 
and, as he repeatedly told himself, he was a 
man of honour. Moreover, he was not one 
of those restless spirits who forever question 
Life for its meaning. Clearly, there was no 
other way than the one which was plainly 
laid before him. 

But a few more years remained to him, he 


44 flMne JBru&fcer’s jfr tent) ” 


293 


reflected, for he was twenty years older than 
the Master; still life was very strange. Dis- 
loyalty to the dead was impossible, for she 
never knew, and would have scorned him if 
she had known. The end of the tangled 
web was in his hands — for three people he 
could make it straight again. 

The long shadows lay upon the hill and 
still he sat there, thinking. The children 
played about him and asked meaningless 
questions, for the first time finding their 
friend unresponsive. 

Finally one, a little bolder than the rest, 
came closer to him. “The good Fraulein,” 
whispered the child, “ she is much troubled 
for the Master. Why is it that he comes 
not to his home ?” 

With a sigh and a smile, the Doctor went 
slowly up the hill to the Master’s house, 
where Fraulein Fredrika was waiting anxious- 
ly. “ Mine brudder! ” she cried ; “ is he ill ? ” 

“No, no, Fraulein/’ answered the Doctor, 
reassuringly, his heart made tender by her 
distress. “ Shall not Franz sit in my office to 
await the infrequent patient while I take his 
place with his sister? You are glad to see 
me, are you not, Fraulein ?” 


294 


Ubc /©aster’s IPiolfn 


The tint of faded roses came into the Frau- 
lein’s face. “ Mine brudder’s friend,” she 
said simply, “ is always most welcome.” 

She excused herself after a few minutes and 
began to bustle about in the kitchen. Surely, 
thought the Doctor, it was pleasant to have a 
woman in one’s house, to bring orderly com- 
fort into one’s daily living. The kettle sang 
cheerily and the Fraulein hummed a little song 
under her breath. In the twilight, the gay 
colours faded into a subdued harmony. 

“It is all very pleasant,” said the Doctor 
to himself, resolutely putting aside a memory 
of something quite different. Perhaps, as his 
simple friends said, the dear God knew. 

After tea, the Fraulein drew her chair to 
the window and looked out, seemingly un- 
conscious of his presence. “ A rare woman,” 
he told himself. “ One who has the gift of 
silence.” 

In the dusk, her face was almost beautiful 
— all the hard lines softened and made ten- 
derly wistful. The Doctor sighed and she 
turned uneasily. 

“Mine brudder,” she said, anxiously, “if 
something was wrong with him, you would 
tell me, yes ? ” 


44 A Dine iJBrubber's Orient) ” 295 


44 Of course/* laughed the Doctor. 44 Why 
are you so distressed ? Is it so strange for me 
to be here ? ** 

“No/* she answered, in a low tone, 44 but 
you are mine brudder*s friend.** 

44 And yours also, Fredrika. Did you never 
think of that?** She trembled, but did not 
answer, and, leaning forward, the Doctor took 
her hand in his. 

44 Fredrika,’* he said, very gently, 44 you will 
perhaps think it is strange for me to talk in this 
way, but have you never thought of me as 
something more than a friend ?’* 

The woman was silent and bitterly ashamed, 
wondering when and where she had betrayed 
herself. 

“That is unfair/* he continued, instantly 
perceiving. 44 1 have thought of you in that 
way, more especially to-day.** Even in the 
dusk, he could see the light in her eyes, and 
in his turn he, too, was shamed. 

44 Dear Fraulein Fredrika,’* he went on, 44 1 
have not much to offer, but all I have is yours. 
I am old, and the woman I loved died, never 
knowing that I loved her. If she had known, 
it would have made no difference. Perhaps 
you think it an empty gift, but it is my all. 


X Ibc /Caster’s IDioHn 


296 

You, too, may have dreamed of something 
quite different, but in the end God knows 
best. Fredrika, will you come ? ” 

The maidenly heart within her rioted madly 
in her breast, but she was used to self-repres- 
sion. 44 1 thank you,” she said, with gentle 
dignity; “it is one compliment which is very 
high, but I cannot leave mine Franz. All the 
way from mine Germany I have come to 
mend, to cook, to wash, to sew, to scrub, to 
sweep, to take after him the many things 
which he forgets and leaves behind, even the 
most essential. What should he think of me 
if I should say: 4 Franz, I will do this for you 
no more, but for someone else?* You will 
understand,” she concluded, in a pathetic little 
voice which stirred him strangely, 44 because 
you are mine brudder’s friend.” 

44 Yes,” replied the Doctor, 44 1 am his friend, 
and so, do you think I would come without 
his permission ? Dear Fr&ulein, Franz knows 
and is glad. That is why I left him. Almost 
the last words he said to me were these: 4 If 
you make mine sister happy, it is all I ask/” 

44 Franz! ” she cried. 44 Mine dear, unselfish 
Franz ! Always so good, so gentle ! Did he 
say that! ” 


44 AM ne JSrubber's f rienb ” 


297 


“ Yes, he said that. Will you come, Fred- 
rika? Shall we try to make each other 
happy?” 

She was standing by the window now, 
with her hand upon her heart, and her face 
alight with more than earthly joy. 

“ Dear Fraulein,” said the Doctor, rejoicing 
because it was in his power to give any human 
creature so much happiness, * ‘ will you come ? ” 

Without waiting for an answer, he put his 
hand upon her shoulder and drew her toward 
him. Then the heavens opened for Fraulein 
Fredrika, and star-fire rained down upon her 
unbelieving souL 


XXI 

* 

Cbe Cremona Speaks 

T HE grey autumnal rain beat heavily upon 
her window, and Iris stood watching 
it, with a heavy weight upon her heart 
The prospect was inexpressibly dreary. As 
far as she could see, there was nothing but a 
desert of roofs. “Roofs,” thought Iris, “al- 
ways roofs I Who would think there were so 
many in the world! ” 

Six months ago she had been a happy 
child, but now all was changed. Grown to 
womanhood through sorrow, she could never 
be the same again, even though Aunt Peace, 
by some miracle of resurrection, should be 
given back to her. 

In those long weeks of loneliness, Iris had 
learned a different point of view. She had 
not written to Mrs. Irving but once, though 
the motherly letter that came in reply to her 
note had seemed like a brief glimpse of East 


Ube Cremona Speaks 


299 


Lancaster. Doctor Brinkerhoff’s letter also 
remained unanswered, chiefly because she 
could not trust herself to write. 

Her grief for Aunt Peace was insensibly 
changed. The poignant sense of loss which 
belonged to the first few weeks had become 
something quite different. Gradually, she 
had learned acceptance, though not yet resig- 
nation. 

With a wisdom far beyond her years, she 
had plunged into her work. The hours not 
devoted to lessons or practice were spent at 
her books. She had even planned out her 
days by a schedule in which every minute 
was accounted for — so much for study, so 
much for practise, so much for the daily walk. 

She had no friends. Aside from the hard- 
faced proprietor of the boarding-house, she 
was upon speaking terms with no one except 
her teacher and one of the attendants at the 
library. It has been written that there is no 
loneliness like that of a great city, and in the 
experience of nearly every one it is at some 
time proved true. 

She missed East Lancaster, with all its dear, 
familiar ways. The elm-bordered path, the 
maple at the gate, and every nook and corner 


300 


Ubc /Raster's Woltn 


of the garden constantly flitted before her like 
a mocking dream. She could not avoid con- 
trasting the tiny chamber, which was now 
her only home, with the great rooms of the 
old house, where everything was always 
exquisitely clean. She even longed for the 
kitchen, with its shining saucepans and its 
tiled hearth. 

To go back, if only for one night, to her 
own room — to make the little cakes for Doctor 
Brinkerhoff, and play her part in the pretty 
Wednesday evening comedy, while Aunt 
Peace sat by, graciously hospitable, and Lynn 
kept them all laughing — oh, if she only could! 

But it is the sadness of life that there is never 
any going back. The Hour, with its oppor- 
tunity, its own individual beauty, comes but 
once. The hand takes out of the crystal pool 
as much water as the tiny, curved cup of the 
palm will hold. The shining drops, each one 
perfect in itself and changing colour with the 
shifting of the light, fall through the fingers 
back into the pool, with a faint suggestion of 
music in the sound. The circle widens out- 
ward, and presently the water is still again. 
If one could go back, gather from the pool 
those same shining drops, made into jewels 


XTbe Cremona Speaks 


301 

by the light, which, at the moment, is also 
changing, one might go back to the Hour. 

Steadfastly, Iris had hardened her heart 
against Lynn. He had dared to love her 1 
Her cheeks crimsoned with shame at the 
thought, but still, when the days were dark, 
it had more than once been a certain comfort 
to know that someone cared, aside from 
Aunt Peace, asleep in the churchyard. 

Lynn and Aunt Peace — they were the only 
ones who cared. Mrs. Irving had been 
friendly; Doctor Brinkerhoff and the Master 
had been kind; Fraulein Fredrika had always 
been glad when she went to see her: but 
these were like bits of Summer blown for an 
instant against the Winter of the world. 

Iris saw clearly, from her new standpoint, 
that she had learned to love the writer of the 
letters. It was he upon whom her soul 
leaned. Then, in the midst of her grief, to 
find that her unknown lover was merely 
Lynn — a boy who chased her around the gar- 
den with grasshoppers and worms — it was 
too much. 

Meditatively, Iris brushed the surface of 
her cheek, where Lynn had kissed her. 
She could feel it now — an awkward, boyish 


302 


Ubc Master's XDiolin 


kiss. It was much the same as if Aunt Peace 
or Mrs. Irving had done it, and it was not at 
all what one read about in the books. 

If it were not for Lynn, she could go back 
to East Lancaster. She might go, anyway, 
if she were sure she would not meet him, but 
where could she stay ? Not with Mrs. Irving 
— that was certain, unless Lynn went away. 
But even then, sometimes he would come 
back — she could not always avoid him. 

Her eyes filled when she thought of the 
Master, generously offering her two of his 
six tiny rooms. The parlour, with its hideous 
ornaments, seemed far preferable to the dingy 
room in the boarding-house, where the old 
square piano stood, thick with dust, and 
where Iris did her daily practising. But no, 
even there, she would meet Lynn. East Lan- 
caster was forbidden to her — she could never 
go there again. 

Women have a strange attachment for 
places, especially for those which, even for a 
little time, have been “ home.” To a man, 
home means merely a house, more or less com- 
fortable according to circumstances, where 
he eats and sleeps — an easy-chair and a fire 
which await him at the close of the day. 


Cbe Cremona Speaks 


303 


The location of it matters not to him. Up- 
root him suddenly, transport him to a strange 
land, surround him with new household 
gods, give him an occupation, and he will 
rather enjoy the change. Never for an in- 
stant will he grieve. With assured com- 
fort and congenial employment, he will be 
equally happy in New York or on the coast of 
South Africa. But the woman, ah, the daily 
tragedy of the woman in the strange place, 
and the long months before she becomes 
even reconciled to her new surroundings! 
After all, it is the home instinct and the 
mother instinct which make the foundations 
of civilisation. 

So it was that Iris hungered for East Lan- 
caster, quite apart from its people. Every 
rod of the ground was familiar to her, from 
the woods, far to the east, to the Master’s 
house on the summit of the hill, at the very 
edge of West Lancaster, overlooking the val- 
ley, and toward the blue hills beyond. 

The rain dripped drearily, and Iris sighed. 
She felt herself absolutely alone in the world, 
with neither friend nor kindred. There was 
only one belonging to her who was not 
dead — her father. No trace of him had been 


304 


XTbe Master's IDfoltn 


found, and his death had been taken for 
granted, but none the less Iris wondered if 
he might not still live, heart-broken and 
remorseful ; if, perhaps, her skirts had 
not brushed against him in some crowded 
thoroughfare of the city. She hoped not, 
for even that seemed contamination. 

It did not much matter that in her haste 
she had left the box containing the photo- 
graphs and the papers in the attic. Aunt 
Peace’s emerald, the fan, and the lace, which 
she had also forgotten, were rightfully hers, 
and yet they seemed to belong to the house — 
to Mrs. Irving and Lynn. 

Swiftly upon her thought came a rap at her 
door. “ A letter for you, Miss Temple.” 

Iris took it eagerly and closed the door 
again, consciously disappointed when she 
saw that it was from Mrs. Irving. Doctor 
Brinkerhoff s careless remark, to the effect that 
Lynn would write soon, had fallen upon fer- 
tile soil. First, Iris decided not to read the 
letter when it came — to return it unopened. 
Then, that it was not necessary to be rude, 
but she need not answer it. Next, a healthy 
human curiosity as to what Lynn might have 
to say to her, after all that had passed be- 


Cbe Cremona Speaks 


305 


tween them. Then she wondered whether 
Lynn's next letter would be anything like the 
three that she had put away in her trunk. 
Now, her hands were trembling, and her 
cheeks were very pale. 

“ My Dear Child,” the letter began. “Not 
having heard from you for so long, 1 fear that 
you are ill, or in trouble. If anything is 
wrong, do not hesitate to tell us, for we are 
your friends, as always. Doctor Brinkerhoff, 
Herr Kaufmann, or 1 would be glad to do any- 
thing to make you happier, or more comfort- 
able. I will come, if you say so, or either of 
the other two. 

“ We are all well and happy here, but we 
miss you. Won’t you come back to us, if 
only for a little while ? The old house is deso- 
late without you, and it is your home as much 
as it is mine. You left the emerald and the 
other little keepsakes. Shall 1 send them to 
you, or will you come for them ? In any 
event, please write me a line to tell me that 
all is well with you, or, if not, how I can help 
you. 

“ Very affectionately yours, 

“Margaret Irving.” 


3°6 


Zbe /toaster's IDtoUn 


And never a word about Lynn! Only that 
“ all ” were well and happy, which, of course, 
included Lynn, and went far to prove to Iris 
that she was right — that he had no heart. 

It was different in the books. When a be- 
loved woman went away, the hero’s heart 
invariably broke, and here was Lynn, “well 
and happy.” Iris pet the letter aside with a 
gesture of disdain. 

Yet the motherly tone of it had touched her 
more deeply than she knew, and accentuated 
her loneliness. Twice she tried to answer it, 
to tell Mrs. Irving that she, too, was well and 
happy, and ask her to send the emerald, the 
lace, and the fan. Twice she gave it up, for 
the page was sadly blotted with her tears. 

Then she determined to write the next day, 
and ask also for the box of papers in the attic. 
Yet would she want Mrs. Irving to see the 
documents meant for her eyes alone, and that 
pathetic little mother in the tawdry stage 
trappings? Surely not! She did not ques- 
tion Margaret’s sense of honour, but there 
were many boxes in the trunk in the attic, 
and she would have to open them one after 
another, until she was sure she had found the 
right one. 


Cbe Cremona Speaks 


307 


Sorely puzzled, desperately homesick, and 
very lonely, Iris sobbed herself to sleep. All 
night she dreamed of East Lancaster, where 
the sky came down close to the ground, in- 
stead of ending at an ugly line of roofs. The 
soft winds came through her window, sweet 
with clover and apple bloom. Doctor Brink- 
erhoff and the Master, Fraulein Fredrika, Aunt 
Peace, Mrs. Irving, and Lynn — always Lynn — 
moved in and out of the dream. When she 
woke, she felt her desolation more keenly 
than ever before. 

At the door of Sleep a sentinel stands, an 
angel in grey garments. The crimson pop- 
pies crown her head and droop to her waist. 
The floor is strewn with them, and the silken 
petals, crushed by the feet of passing strangers, 
give out a strange perfume. To enter that 
door, you must pass Our Lady of Dreams. 

Sometimes she smiles as you enter, and 
sometimes there is only a careless nod. Often 
her clear, serene eyes make no sign of recog- 
nition, and at other times she frowns. But, 
whatever be the temper of the Lady at the 
door, your dream waits for you inside. 

The parcels are all alike, so it is useless 
to stop and choose, but you must take one. 


3°8 


Zbc toaster's IDtoUn 


Frequently, when you open it, there is nothing 
there but peaceful slumber, cunningly arranged 
to look like a dream. Once in a thousand 
times it happens that you get the dream that 
is meant for you, because it all depends upon 
chance, and so many strangers nightly enter 
that door that it is impossible to arrange the 
parcels any differently. 

When the night has passed, and you come 
back, it is always through the same door, 
where the patient sentinel still stands. You 
are supposed to give back your dream, so that 
someone else may have it the next night, but 
if she is tired, or very busy, you may some- 
times slip through and so have a dream to 
remember. 

Iris had given back her dream, but a strong 
impression of East Lancaster still remained, and 
it was as though she had been there in the 
night. Suddenly she sat up in bed, with her 
heart wildly throbbing. Why not go back? 

Why not, indeed? Why not take a flying 
trip, just to see the dear place again? Why 
not talk for a few minutes with Mrs. Irving, 
then slip upstairs for the emerald, the bit of 
lace, the feather fan, and the lonely little 
mother in the attic? 


Cbe Cremona Speafts 


309 


She could plan her journey so that she 
would be making her call while Lynn was at 
his lesson. When it was time for him to re- 
turn, she could go to Doctor Brinkerhoff s and 
thank him for writing. While there, she 
could see Lynn come downhill — of course, 
not to look at him, but just to know that he 
was out of the way. Then she could go up 
the hill and stay with Fraulein Fredrika and 
the Master until almost train time. 

It was practicable and in every way desira- 
ble. Perhaps, after she had seen East Lan- 
caster once more, she would not be so 
homesick. Iris hummed a little song as she 
dressed herself, far happier than she had been 
for many months. 

Thought and action were never far apart 
with her. The next day she was safely aboard 
the train. She stopped overnight at the little 
hotel in a nearby town, where once she had 
been with Aunt Peace, after a memorable visit 
to the city. The morning train left at five, 
and just at ten she reached her destination, 
her heart fluttering joyously. 

Lynn was certainly at his lesson — there 
could be no doubt of that. She fairly flew up 
the street, fearful lest someone should see her, 


3io 


Ube Master's Violin 


and paused at the corner for a look at the old 
house. 

Nothing was changed. It was just as it 
had been for two centuries and more. Panic 
seized her, but she went on boldly, though 
her cheeks burned. After all, she was not an 
intruder — it was her home, not only through 
the gift, but by right of possession. 

She rang the bell timidly, but no one an- 
swered. Then she tried again, but with no 
better result, so she turned the knob and the 
door opened. 

She stepped in, but no one was there. 
“Mrs. Irving!” she called, but only the 
echo of her own voice came back to her. The 
portraits in the hall stared at her, but it was 
a friendly scrutiny and not at all distressing. 
They seemed to nod to one another and to 
whisper from their gilded frames: “Iris has 
come back.” 

“Well,” she thought, “I can’t sit down 
and wait, for Lynn may come home from 
his lesson at any minute. I’ll just go up- 
stairs.” 

The door of Margaret’s room was ajar, and 
Iris peeped in, but it was empty, like the rest 
of the house. She stole into Aunt Peace’s 


Cbe Cremona Speaks 


311 

room, found her keepsakes, and prepared to 
depart. 

She saw her reflection in the long mirror, 
and, for the moment, it startled her. “I feel 
like a thief,” she said to herself, “ even though 
1 am only taking my own/* 

She went up into the attic, found the box, 
and came down again. The old house was so 
still! Surely it would do no harm if she took 
just one sniff at the cedar chest before she 
went away. She loved the fragrance of the 
wood, and it would delay her only a moment 
longer. 

Then, all at once, she paused like a fright- 
ened bird. Someone was there! Someone 
was walking back and forth in Lynn’s room ! 
Scarcely knowing what she did, Iris crouched 
on the floor at the end of the chest, trusting to 
the kindly shadows to screen her if the door 
should open. 

But no one came. Lynn had taken the Cre- 
mona from its case with something very like 
a smile upon his face. The brown breasts had 
the colour of old wine, and the shell was thin 
to the point of fragility. 

He had feared to touch it, but the Master 
had only laughed at him. “What!” he had 


312 


Ube dDaster’s littoiin 


said, “shall I not sometimes lend mine Cre- 
mona to mine son, who like mineself is one 
great artist ? Of a surety! ” 

Lynn placed the instrument in position, and 
dreamily, began to play. His mother was 
out, and he played as he could not if he had 
not thought himself alone. Ail his heartbreak, 
all his pain, the white nights and the dark 
days went into the adagio, the one thing 
suited to his mood. 

At the first notes. Iris drew a quick, gasping 
breath. Surely it was not Lynn! Yet who 
else should be in his room, playing as no one 
played but the great ? 

Primeval forces held her in their grasp, and 
all at once her shallowness fell away from her, 
leaving her free. The blood surged into her 
heart with shame — she had wronged Lynn. 
She had been so blind, so painfully sure of 
herself, so pitifully important in her self- 
esteem! 

The music went on without hindrance or 
pause. Deep chords and piercing flights of 
melody alternated through the theme, yet 
there was the undertone of love and night 
and death. Iris clenched her hands until the 
nails cut into her palms. All her life, she 


XEbe Cremona Speaks 


313 


seemed to have been playing with tinsel; now, 
when it was out of her reach, she had dis- 
covered the gold. 

Why should it seem so strange for Lynn to 
play like this ? Had he not written the letters ? 
Had he not offered her his whole heart — the 
gift she had so insultingly thrown aside ? Iris 
knelt beside the chest, in bitter humiliation. 

One thing was certain — she must go away, 
and quickly. She could not wait there, 
trembling and afraid, until someone found 
her; she must get away, but how ? She was 
sorely shaken, both in body and soul. 

She could not go away, and yet she must. 
She would go to the station, and, from there, 
write to Mrs. Irving and to Lynn. The least 
she could do was to ask him to forgive her. 
Having done that, she would go back to the 
city, change her address, and be lost to them 
forever. 

Low, quivering tones came from the Cre- 
mona, like the sobs of a woman whose heart 
was broken. Suddenly, Iris knew that she 
belonged to Lynn — that through love or hate 
she was bound to him forever. Then, in a 
blinding flood came the tears. 

Slowly the adagio swept to its end, and yet 


314 


XTbe /©aster's IDfolitt 


she could not move. The music ceased, and 
yet the silence held her spellbound, vainly 
praying for the ^strength to go away. She 
heard the click of the lock as the violin case 
was closed, the quick step to the door, and 
the turning of the knok 

She shrank back into the corner, close to 
the chest, and hid her face in her hands, then 
someone lifted her up. 

“Sweetheart,” cried Lynn, “have you 
come back to me?” 

At the touch, at the tender word, the bar- 
riers crumbled away, and Iris lifted her lovely 
tear-stained face to his. “Yes,” she said, 
unsteadily, “I have come back. Will you 
forgive me ? ” 

“Forgive you?” repeated Lynn, with a 
happy laugh; “ why, dearest, there is nothing 
to forgive I ” 

In that radiant instant, he thought he spoke 
the truth, so quickly do we forget sorrow 
when the sun shines into the soul. 

“Oh!” sobbed Iris, hiding her face against 
his shoulder, “ I — I said you had no heart !” 

“So I haven’t, darling,” answered Lynn, 
tenderly; “I gave it all to you, the very first 
day I saw you. Will you keep it for me, 


Ube Cremona Speafes 315 

dear? Will you give me a little corner of 
your own?” 

“All,” whispered Iris. ‘*1 think it has 
always been yours, but I did n't know until 
just now.” 

“How long have you been here, sweet- 
heart ? ” 

“I — I don’t know. I heard you play, and 
then I knew.” 

“It was that blessed Cremona,” said Lynn, 
with his lips against her hair. “ You said I 
should never kiss you again, dear, do you re- 
member? Don’t you think it’s time you 
changed your mind ?” 

The golden minutes slipped by, and still 
they stood there, by the window in the hall. 
Margaret came back, and went up to her 
room, but no one heard her, even though she 
was singing. At the head of the stairs, she 
stopped, startled. Then, by the light of her 
own happiness, she understood, and crept 
softly away. 


THE END. 


718 


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